


Miss Directed

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: Endpoint [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cutting, Drug Use, Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Hand Jobs, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Harm, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock-centric, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 69
Words: 83,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5936922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John?” “Yeah?” “If I don’t know where I am, how will you come find me?”</p><p>All John wants to do is find Sherlock—his Sherlock. Because the trembling shell he held and rocked gently was most assuredly not his Sherlock.</p><p>This immediately follows ENDPOINT: Pinpricks in Maps</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Ariane DeVere, aka Callie Sullivan, for the amazing transcripts.

Preface  
  
He was furious with the man who had commanded—commanded! —him to meet at 221B. He had dragged himself there in an utterly foul mood—a three-day-old foul mood that had started the night that he couldn’t settle down. He hadn’t slept well since then, and work had become stressful as he tried to maintain a professional relationship with Mary that she seemed entirely unwilling to accept.  
  
He hated being there. _Hated_ it. He hated the Tube station and he hated the walk from the station and he hated turning onto Baker Street and he hated seeing Speedy’s and he hated digging his key out and he hated letting himself in. He hated knocking on Mrs Hudson’s door. He didn’t hate her, but that was a moot point, as apparently she was out. He had stomped up into the flat, hating every step. Swung open the door.  
  
Oh, God. The smell. That wonderful, familiar smell. Even after all this time and all of Mrs Hudson’s efforts, the flat still smelled—  
  
of Sherlock.  
  
It smelled of books and smoke and dust and peppermint and gunpowder and melted plastic and that odd odour that neither one of them had ever been able to identify but it was still so familiar.  
  
So many memories. Too many memories. His head was bursting with memories.  
  
He had deliberately stayed in the sitting room, nursing his aching, overly-full head; he had not wandered through the rest of the familiar home.  
  
No. Not home now. Not for ages now, despite the familiar wallpaper and sofa and—was that the Union Jack pillow? He had picked it up and pressed it to his face, breathing in deeply.  
  
It smelled—it smelled like smoke and mint and hydrochloric acid. It smelled like—  
  
Sherlock  
  
“Doctor Watson?”  
  
The door to the flat swung open. Mycroft Holmes was standing in the entrance. “Mycroft. What’s this all about? You know I don’t like being here,” he immediately demanded. Was it his imagination, or did he look uncomfortable? Maybe someone had _finally_ shoved his umbrella up his arse.  
  
But who was that behind the supercilious man? John frowned, suddenly wary. “Is there someone with you?” He tipped his head, trying to see around him. Mycroft took a step to the side, revealing—  
  
“Oh my God…”  
  
John’s voice faded as a grey fog filled his vision. Voices came out of it, echoing and smearing weirdly. Was one of those voices his own?  
  
“No. That’s impossible.”  
  
“John, are you all right?”  
  
“No. No. It can’t be.”  
  
“Sit down, doctor.”  
  
“Water.”  
  
A cup was pressed to his lips. He swallowed the tiniest bit, but it helped. He held up his hand. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m okay. I’m…” He stopped. He was seated in a chair that he didn’t remember sitting down in. His chair. His old chair. His own chair. He realised that he was still holding the Union Jack pillow.  
  
He was having a hard time catching his breath.  
  
“John, I’m sorry to have done this in this manner, but I thought face-to-face would be the… easiest way for you to receive the news.” Mycroft was standing stiffly to the side of the chair.  
  
He saw colours and movement and heard footsteps. There was someone in front of him now. He squinted at the figure.  
  
He bent his head down; he was going to be sick.  
  
“John?”  
  
He shook his head, unwilling to open his mouth at that moment. He took deep breaths.  
  
“John. Please look at me.” He complied, carefully. “John. It’s really him.”  
  
“How is that possible?” he gasped.  
  
“I’ll explain everything, but—”  
  
“My?”  
  
That voice.  
  
Oh, God, that voice.  
  
How many times had he wished that he could hear that voice? He didn’t care what it said. It could rant or insult or deduce or say anything it wanted if he could just hear that voice again.  
  
How many times had he watched that stupid birthday video clip?  
  
How many times had he fallen asleep weeping for that voice?  
  
“I want to… can I?” the voice said, hesitantly.  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
And suddenly there was someone in front of him on top of him wrapped around him breathing him in  
  
He needed his hands free.  
  
He needed them free to touch.  
  
He needed them to feel the razor-sharp cheekbones and the papery skin and the tangled curls and the bony shoulders and the too-thin chest and the long, white fingers and the full lips and  
  
His eyes  
  
He needed to see his eyes.  
  
The last time he had seen them, they had been open. Staring. Sightless.  
  
He tipped the messy head of curls back with one gentle hand.  
  
The eyes were shut.  
  
He took a deep breath. Tried licking his lips. Tried clearing his throat. His voice came out like rust anyway.  
  
*Sherlock?*  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes. [Pinpricks in Maps]  
  
Chapter 1  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes.  
  
Oh my God, John’s heart sang. It’s him. It’s really him. I asked him to not be dead and he’s not. He’s really here—alive and warm(ish) and breathing and…  
  
Wait. How had he survived? He jumped off a _building,_ for Christ’s sake. I saw him do it. I saw him—no, I did not see him hit the ground—I saw him right after. On the pavement. Blood in his beautiful curls and on his beautiful face and I tried to reach him; tried to take his pulse and people kept pulling me away. I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t reach him. I couldn’t reach—  
  
And strangers’ hands had turned him over and I saw his eyes. Open. Dead. Staring. NO.  
  
*  
  
But now Sherlock had opened his own eyes.  
  
This was real. This was really happening.  
  
So he looked into those eyes—those amazing blue/green/grey/sliver/gold eyes that had flashed and peered and penetrated and revealed, and he looked deeply in the hope of seeing some of that—any of that.  
  
Sherlock—his Sherlock—his Oh-My-God-It’s-Really-Him Sherlock—looked back.  
  
And John’s stomach did a very odd thing that had him swallowing hard. Because there was— _nothing._  
  
“This isn’t Sherlock,” he shouted, suddenly shoving the thin man off him. He crumbled to the floor without a sound. “What the _fuck_ is this all about, Mycroft?”  
  
“John! I assure you—this really is him.”  
  
Was it him? It had to be. Mycroft was always right. But how could it be him? He was dead, after all. Dead and buried and he visited the gravesite regularly and—  
  
Breathe, John.  
  
Sherlock sat where John had dumped him. He looked rather dazed.  
  
John frowned as he knelt next to him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned his head slowly and stared at the hand. His silence frightened John. He turned him gently by the shoulders so he could look at Sherlock’s face. Look into his eyes again, this time with his doctor’s eyes—and his stomach turned again.  
  
This _was_ his Sherlock—however that could be possible—but it was a side of the man that he hated to see; hadn’t ever wanted to see again. “What’s he on?” he snarled at the man’s brother.  
  
“A tranquilliser.” He withdrew a bottle from his pocket and handed it to the doctor.  
  
John looked at the label. “This is an antipsychotic,” he noted with alarm.  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“It’s a long story,” the older man commented drily.  
  
“Come on. Let’s get you into your chair. All right?” The doctor cautiously helped his—the realisation hit him again and he felt dizzy and sick—helped the thin man up and got him seated. He then glared at the tall man standing stiffly in front of him. “What the fuck happened to him?” he demanded. Sherlock flinched.  
  
Mycroft hesitated a long moment, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “I never intended any of this, John,” he finally stated quietly. “Moriarty had to be stopped—his network was far more extensive than we originally understood. Sherlock was the only one who could have done what he did. I had no idea how hard it would be on him.”  
  
John glared at him.  
  
“You must believe me, and understand that it was not his choice. He never wanted to leave you.”  
  
John didn’t move.  
  
“I didn’t know that he was returning until he was on British soil again. We had initially been in contact, but—we lost track of him some time ago.” Mycroft sounded like he had a fishbone stuck in his throat.  
  
“So you sent him off—what, undercover?—and then lost track of him? You—the man who keeps surveillance on our bloody landlady—you _lost track_ of him?” He laughed humourlessly.  
  
“In a word, yes.”  
  
“For how long? How long has he been off your radar?”  
  
“Well over a year,” the government man muttered. “About sixteen months, actually.”  
  
“What?! You—you arranged for him to fake his own suicide, let me think that he was dead—the media ripped him apart, Mycroft! And you just sent him off to deal with whatever your little problem was and then you _lost track of him_ for _sixteen months_?” He had to hold himself back from throttling the man. Instead, he turned back to Sherlock, who was sitting quietly, looking from one to the other of them.  
  
John squatted down and looked up into his eyes. Sherlock frowned and tried to gaze back at him, but he appeared to be having trouble focusing. The doctor reached for the healing injury on his temple and the younger man flinched, but only after a slight pause. “God, did you have to dope him up so much?” the doctor growled.  
  
“He was… agitated.”  
  
“How long has he been back?” He brushed the familiar curls away from the pale forehead.  
  
“We picked him up eight days ago. We don’t actually know how long he was back in the country before that.”  
  
“Did he tell you what happened to him?”  
  
Sherlock looked slowly from one face to another again. He was clearly trying to follow the conversation but didn’t seem to be having much success.  
  
“He doesn’t speak much.”  
  
“So why have you brought him to me now?”  
  
“Doctor Watson, my brother has clearly been traumatised, both mentally and physically. He is malnourished, injured, and on top of everything has been going through withdrawals. He has rarely spoken since we picked him up—and then only with much prompting. Not much of it made sense.”  
  
“I said, ‘why now?’ Answer me.”  
  
“Because three nights ago, he finally said something of his own accord.”  
  
“What did he say?” John muttered through gritted teeth.  
  
“He said ‘John.’”


	2. Chapter 2

“No. I am not doing this. NO!” John hurtled towards the door.  
  
It had been an awful hour of explanations; recriminations. At one point, Mycroft’s ever-texting assistant Anthea arrived with a medical file on the younger Holmes. A man in a black suit stood at parade rest in the hallway the entire time; the only time he showed a sign of life was when John very nearly punched Mycroft in the face. John found himself spinning between disbelief that his—Sherlock was alive and fury at both of them for the two-year-long subterfuge. He was overwhelmed and sick with the myriad of emotions. During it all, Sherlock had remained silent, occasionally looking around himself and at them and sometimes shutting his eyes. And then the doctor had had enough.  
  
“You aren’t going to take care of him?” the taller man asked, uncharacteristically anxiously.  
  
“Why the hell should I?” the doctor snapped back. “I didn’t do this to him, or to myself. You did.”  
  
“Yes. Once again, Doctor Watson, I do apologise—”  
  
“Yeah. Fine. Whatever. You broke him. You fix him. And stay out of my life—both of you.”  
  
John slammed out of the flat and the building and onto the street and Mycroft could picture him storming down the pavement towards the tube stop. The older man sat in the flat for a long time, watching his brother, who had flinched at the slamming of the door but otherwise seemed oblivious to his surroundings.  
  
Now he could see signs that the tranquiliser was wearing off. His little brother began looking around himself; sitting up straighter.  
  
It took a long time for that, too.  
  
“Mycroft.”  
  
Oh, good. Back to himself. Finally. “Yes, brother mine?”  
  
“Give me my things and get the hell out of my flat.”  
  
“I don’t think that you should be al—”  
  
“I said, get out.” He held out an imperious hand. It shook, but his voice didn’t. His glare didn’t.  
  
Mycroft handed him the bottle of medication, a mobile, and a bank card. He waited. Sherlock ignored him, turning his attention to adjusting the settings on the phone.  
  
Mycroft Holmes finally sighed and left.  
  
*  
  
Home at last. Home to his tidy, modern, horrid…  
  
John Watson collapsed into a chair, buried his head in his hands, and wept.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock’s expression changed. A glint of interest appeared in his eyes. He reached out a trembling hand and stroked the arm of the chair. The faintest of smiles graced his lips for half a second. He bent forward and picked up the Union Jack pillow from where John had dropped it. He gripped it tightly to himself, buried his face in it, and breathed in deeply.  
  
Then he slowly got to his feet and, holding the pillow to his chest, began to wander around the flat. His long fingers ran gently across the desk; the papers still piled there. He went to the book shelves and stared rapturously at the crowded tomes. He leaned forward so that his forehead touched the faded spines for a moment, his eyes shut.  
  
He continued around the room—touching, smelling, even tasting some of the long-abandoned objects. He shook the Persian slipper and a single cigarette fell out. He stroked the handle of the jack knife, still embedded in the mantel, holding long-overdue bills to it. He smiled as his eyes fell on the skull. _Hello,_ he said to it, silently.  
  
He avoided looking into the mirror that hung over the fireplace.  
  
Then into the kitchen, where he sighed in contentment at the microscope; the beakers and flasks—everything was still there, seemingly ready to use.  
  
He finally came around the corner and gazed at the yellow-spray-painted, bullet-pocked smiley face on the wall.  
  
_He was home._  
  
_He was finally, really home._  
  
_It was almost too good to be true._  
  
_Was it?_  
  
_Was it not true?_  
  
_Was he dreaming again?_  
  
He frowned and then swayed and dropped into his chair.  
  
_Had John been a dream, too?_  
  
He fell asleep in his chair in front of the fireplace, clutching the Union Jack pillow to his thin chest.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“John? What’s wrong?”  
  
“He’s… He’s not… He’s not dead.”  
  
“Who’s not dead? What’s happened?” she demanded firmly.   
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“What?! No.”  
  
“Yes. It’s real. He’s… I saw him.” He stopped speaking with a strangled squawk.  
  
“Do you want me to come over?”  
  
She could hear him clear his throat. “Yeah. Yes. Would you? Please?”  
  
“As soon as I can get there.”  
  
Mary’s mouth curled up into a smile as she rang off. It had paid off. Two years of shadowing Dr John Watson, blogger and companion and whatever-else-they-had-been-doing to Sherlock Holmes, had finally come to fruition. She was finally going to be able to encounter the bastard face to face and pay him back for what he had done to her boss; to her lover.  
  
To her world.  
  
She pulled a second mobile out from its hiding place and sent a brief text:  
  
 _He’s been located._  
  
She changed into “Mary Morstan, receiving nurse,” clothes. She left her gun behind. She wouldn’t need it.  
  
Yet.  
  
*  
  
It looked right. It sounded right. It smelled and even tasted right.  
  
It felt wrong.  
  
What was happening? Was it really happening? Or was he lost in another dream?  
  
No. In the dreams, things hadn’t always looked or sounded right, but they had always felt right. But now he felt like the floor was crumbling beneath him; the foundation under it nothing but rubble.  
  
*  
  
“I still can’t believe it.” Mary tutted and patted his knee; they were seated on the sofa facing one another, and she had her hand on his leg.  
  
“Two years. He was alive for the past _two years_ , and bloody Mycroft Holmes knew it, and he didn’t tell me. ‘National security’ my arse. He’s a bloody selfish bastard and just didn’t give a crap what Sherlock’s suicide did to anyone.  
  
“And then, when he comes back, what the fuck does he do?” He clenched his hand into a fist. “He pokes at him—observes how fucked up he is—for eight days, and then gives up and thinks he can just dump him on me—just like that. Like it’s going to just erase the past two years and everything will be back to normal.” He pounded the sofa with his fist. “And on top of it, Sherlock’s such a mess he can barely speak. What does he expect? That ‘good old dependable John Watson’ is just going to drop everything he’s fought for to rebuild in his life and… and…  
  
“God, Mary, what am I supposed to do?”  
  
Mary pulled him to her, holding him gently and murmuring assurances. She had no idea whatsoever what he was going to do, truth be told. But she certainly knew what she was going to do.  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“How did it go?” Anthea asked calmly.  
  
“How do you think it went?” her boss hissed at her.  
  
She deserved that, she realized. Could it have possibly gone any way but horribly? She had had only a glimpse of the interactions of the past few hours, when she had, on her superior’s command, brought the medical file on his brother upstairs. She had nodded at the bodyguard standing stiffly in the hallway, stationed there since he had virtually carried the younger Holmes up the stairs.  
  
She had hesitated at the door. My, what a lot of shouting, she reflected. She knew that Doctor John Watson, ex-army captain, was a rather angry man, and not shy about expressing it, but Mycroft Holmes didn’t often shout. Rarely. Virtually not at all. In fact, the only times that she had heard Mycroft Holmes shout, it always seemed to be in conjunction with something related to his younger brother. That could not be a coincidence.  
  
“The file, sir,” she said quietly, striding bravely between the two men and placing it on the desk. She glanced around. Oh, there he was, sitting quietly in his chair, frowning in confusion.  
  
Anthea sighed. This was most certainly not the Sherlock of two years ago. She had finally admitted (only to herself) that she had had—not quite a crush but—a _fascination_ with the younger Holmes brother. She couldn’t deny it. All that dark hair and pale skin and piercing eyes and that rather luscious bum… and while he was away she had undeniably missed his mad adventures, his intrusions—even his rudeness. Life was never dull when he was about, that was certain.  
  
Still, as shocked and horrified as she had been at his appearance eight days ago, battered almost beyond recognition and certainly beyond his own cognition (and she was sworn not to reveal a word of what little he had said but it brought tears to her eyes), she knew that Mycroft had been hit a thousand times harder. What would he say to their parents? (Not that it was any of her business, but he did tend to make his weekly call to them just when she was bringing him his afternoon cup of tea.) But of course it was the prodigal son, now returned, who had been hit the hardest.  
  
So she paused and, glancing at the two men shouting at one another (the height difference made it just the tiniest bit funny), took a few steps towards the chair that held the shell of someone who had once been a great man.  
  
“Sherlock,” she said softly, kneeling so she could see his face, one hand on the arm of the chair. “Are you all right? Is the shouting frightening you?”  
  
Shouting had most certainly been frightening to him during his stay at his brother’s home. Shouting. Loud noises. Sudden motion.  
  
The duvet in the guest room.  
  
That last one puzzled her, as it had puzzled everyone trying to communicate with the battered detective. But the tranquilisers that really were quite necessary for keeping Sherlock somewhat calm didn’t help with communication one bit, so eight days later they were no closer to discovering what he had been through than they were on the night of his reappearance. All they had to go on was his physical condition… she was not the sensitive type, but she blinked hard at the memory.  
  
But now he had drawn as far back in his chair as he could get, his knees drawn up to his chest and his thin arms wrapped around them. He was still muzzy with the medication, but it was obvious that he was aware of the tension in the room. His eyes, unfocused as they were, were still trying to follow the shouting match unfolding in front of him. She could see it—he knew that the argument was about him, but he couldn’t understand it, and it terrified him.  
  
How she longed to lay a hand on his arm, or his head—but she didn’t dare. His reaction to touch had been—alarming. And when she had seen some of the scars he now bore, she didn’t need to and especially didn’t want to think about why.  
  
“You’ll be all right,” she assured him steadily. “You’re home now.” Sherlock tore his eyes away from the ranting men and glanced around himself in puzzlement. “Yes, that’s right. Home. It’s going to take a while, but eve—”  
  
“Get back into the car,” Mycroft said darkly.  
  
She nodded, practically ran out of the flat, and dove into the black car, startling the driver.  
  
She didn’t see Sherlock’s face as he struggled to form a word—one silent word.  
  
 _Home._  
  



	5. Chapter 5

So he had found himself back in 221B Baker Street, in the cosy, cluttered flat with the overly-fussy curtains and fairly alarming mixture of wallpapers and that odd odour that neither one of them had ever been able to track down.  
  
The entire flat was essentially as he had left it, he had discovered. It was extremely disconcerting. He had his new mobile and he knew that a new laptop was to arrive soon. Otherwise, everything was the same. Someone of Mycroft’s ( _Your brother has minions?_ He remembered John asking him in amusement a million years ago) had brought food and toiletries. His brother had offered to supply him with clothing as well ( _Everything will be positively swimming on you, you do realise_ ) but other than the suit and shirt he was wearing, he had declined. He wanted to do that himself.  
  
Except for The Coat.  
  
That he had accepted with alacrity.  
  
He had explained his presence to Mrs Hudson—well, he had revealed himself to her. That had not gone terribly well. “Violent hysterics” were the words that came to mind. He could hardly blame her. He gave her half a tablet of his own medication and ensured that she was comfortable and still breathing before he crept back up the stairs.  
  
He debated what to do then. Molly already knew that he was back; he didn’t recall that particular conversation, as he didn’t recall much of the past few weeks, but of course she had known all along that he had faked his own death, so it hadn’t been quite so traumatic.  
  
Lestrade. Yes. He wanted to contact the DI before the “grand reveal” that was scheduled for the next day. Mycroft had arranged that, of course. It was going to be horrible. He put on The Coat, tucked the new mobile and credit card into his pocket, and walked slowly down to the street.  
  
*  
  
He was more gratified than he would ever let on when Lestrade—Greg—had wrapped his arms around him. Shocked and stunned, of course, but still grateful that he was alive. Better than hysterics. Much better than—  
  
_Had_ John been there? He still wasn’t entirely convinced, but he was too stubborn to phone and ask his brother.  
  
*  
  
“Come on, John. Answer your damn phone.” Greg Lestrade blew a frustrated lungful of smoke out into the night. Should he go to his flat?  
  
*  
  
“No, it’s all right, John. You’ve had about the most overwhelming news that I can think of tonight. I’m sure it’s just shock,” Mary assured him, redressing herself swiftly.  
  
John groaned and covered his face with his hands.  
  
*  
  
Back home. Time for a bath. He filled the tub and stripped.  
  
Swallowed. Hard.  
  
The sight of his body in the bright light of the bath was—what that light revealed was just too horrific for words.  
  
Scars. Top to bottom, front and back—Sherlock’s ivory skin was now… well. _Mutilated_ was the correct word. Some of the scars were old—two years old—a knife wound; a pale rough patch on one hip. Defensive wounds on his arms and hands. A horrible series of perfectly round scars that curved down across his shoulders, and three others lower down—cigarette burns that formed an upside-down smiley face on his back.  
  
And then there were the more recent ones; fresher. Sharper. Cleaner. Track marks in both arms. A massive collection of self-inflicted cuts on both thighs—still and always in series of five.  
  
He knew how he had gotten most of them. Sometimes the memories were a bit dim, but mostly they were there.  
  
Except there was the one that made him flinch—because, unlike the others, he couldn’t remember how it got there. He would stare at it when he bathed; when he dressed. At night he would sometimes run his hand over the rough skin, outlining the oddly-shaped area with one finger. How had that one happened? And why didn’t he remember it?  
  
*  
  
“Are you coming to work tomorrow?” Mary asked softly, slipping on her coat.  
  
“Yeah. I guess.” John looked at her with some uncertainty on his face. Work? Could he do that?  
  
“If you don’t think you can manage, why not say you’re ill? You’ll be no good to anyone if you can’t think straight.”  
  
True.  
  
“I’ll see how I feel in the morning,” he offered.  
  
Mary nodded, finding her bag. “Well, I’m on in the morning, so I’ll head home now. Get some sleep if you can, all right?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Mary left before he even considered giving her a kiss good night.  
  
*  
  
Greg lay on his sofa, his arm outstretched so the hand holding the beer was supported by the coffee table.  
  
_Alive. The bloody bastard is alive._  
  
He couldn’t actually think about it directly; like the sun, it was too bright and too hot. It made his stomach churn and his eyes water. So he thought around it. To the past—remembering Sherlock over the years, from a scrawny, strung-out lunatic with a craving for solving crimes and puzzles to… well… a less-scrawny, less-often strung-out lunatic with a craving for solving crimes and puzzles, but now accompanied by his walking conscience in the form of John Watson. Right.  
  
No, not right. He had immediately seen that Sherlock wasn’t all right, of course. He sounded like himself—deep voice and snarky comment coming at him from the dark in the parking garage. He looked like himself, more or less—same tailored clothes; The Coat—but with undeniably sharper features, paler skin, and an odd sort of transparency to him. Hugging him had been like hugging a broom dressed in a greatcoat.  
  
And there was the flinch when they had connected.  
  
_This is too much. This can’t be real. Why won’t John answer his phone?_  
  
One hand, still clutching his bottle of beer, was supported by the coffee table. The other hand had to keep wiping the tears from his cheeks.  
  
*  
  
Bath accomplished, Sherlock was now standing on the mat, shivering while he dried himself off. He liked the way the towels felt. It had been a long time since he had felt towels that soft. Why had it been so long?  
  
It had been so long because—  
  
Because—  
  
_Colours noises lights tastes odours horrid awful not home not London not John_  
  
Steadying himself against the wall, he made his way to the bedroom. He liked the bedroom. It smelled nice and the bed was soft and the duvet didn’t hurt his eyes or make him feel sick. He was a bit cold with no clothes on, but Daddy would fix that and then he would be warm and dry and clean and the bed was so soft and his eyes and his head and his skin wouldn’t hurt and his head was so heavy and his eyes were sleepy and Daddy would be there soon and Daddy would fix everythi…  
  
*  
  
She had heard the water running into and draining out of the tub, and then just a few creaks of the floor above before there was silence. It was late, but she didn’t care. Whatever lovely tablet he had given her had worn off. She kept looking up at her ceiling, shaking her head in disbelief. She had never thought she would hear those sounds again.  
  
Sherlock. Her boy. He was back. He wasn’t dead. Not. Dead.  
  
Martha Hudson only hesitated a second before downing the other half of the tablet he had left her.  
  
*  
  
Mary sat upright at the end of her bed, mobile in hand, texting like mad:  
  
_Watson saw him; verified alive at Baker St_  
  
The response came immediately:  
  
_You know what you need to do._  
  
She replied:  
  
_Just keep that idiot Moran out of my way. I don’t need him_  
  
She stared at the small screen for a minute, a broad smile on her face. Finally. He was finally in her court. It was about bloody time. She did know exactly what she needed to do.  
  
She rose, walked into her kitchen, and pulled a cook book off a shelf.  
  
*  
  
Greg woke up, startled. Where was he? Oh, right. He had fallen asleep on his decidedly uncomfortable sofa. Ugh. _Get up and get into a proper bed, you idiot,_ he told himself. _Tomorrow is going to be a long day._  
  
He almost knocked the bottle of beer over when he stumbled into the coffee table. Good thing it was empty.  
  
*  
  
John lay on his back in his bed, the covers pushed halfway off. He was staring at the ceiling—what he could see of it in the dark.  
  
_No no no no this was not happening this couldn’t possibly be happening was this really happening was it real?_  
  
His hands reached out to touch pale skin; to brush dark curls out of those illuminated eyes—  
  
But he touched only air.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock sat up in bed, his eyes wide open.  
  
No no no no get away from me don’t touch me stop staring at me get away leave me alone DON’T TOUCH ME—  
  
He thrust his hands out in front of himself.  
  
But he touched only air.


	6. Chapter 6

The media blitz was just that—loud and horrible and intense and overwhelming. There was an impromptu (planned) press conference on the pavement outside 221. Mrs Hudson tutted about the crowd and the owner of Speedy’s wasn’t happy about the blocked pavement until several of the reporters came in and ordered food.  
  
Lestrade was there; Sherlock had checked with him the night before to ensure that he’d be on hand. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was nervous. Apprehensive. He knew that Mycroft was right (he was always right) and this was the way things had to be done, but he hated the idea of the crowd. The strangers’ faces. The noise. The intrusive microphones and cameras and idiotic questions.  
  
Oh, God, the questions.  
  
 _Where have you been?_  
  
 _What have you been doing?_  
  
 _Why did you come back now?_  
  
 _How did you survive the jump?_  
  
 _Are you still suicidal?_  
  
 _How do you feel about being exonerated?_  
  
 _How do you feel about being proved right about Moriarty?_  
  
 _Is John Watson back as well?_  
  
 _Where is John Watson?_  
  
 _Do you prefer tea or coffee in the morning?_ (He was rather bemused about that one.)  
  
Finally, Lestrade had declared the event over. Thank God. They retreated into the house.  
  
“I’ll bring up some tea,” Mrs Hudson chimed from the safety of her vestibule.  
  
“That would be quite welcome, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock nodded.  
  
They ascended to Flat B, Sherlock leading the way. He and the DI slumped into the chairs by the fireplace. “God, that was awful,” Sherlock commented, rather unnecessarily.  
  
“Yeah. I was there,” the DI chuckled. Then he looked keenly at the younger man. “You all right? You look a bit off.”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Just… don’t like crowds.”  
  
“You been eating? You’re thin as a rail.”  
  
“Well aware.” _Boring,_ said his tone of voice.  
  
“That didn’t answer my question.”  
  
“How astute. Your observational powers have improved.”  
  
“Come off it, Sherlock! You don’t look well. Has John checked on you?”  
  
Sherlock stiffened at the mention of the doctor’s name. “I was examined by several of Mycroft’s pet doctors when I returned to England. Other than the head injury—which I received after I got back; lovely welcoming committee—I am fine.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson said you’ve been taking something—”  
  
“Mrs Hudson is so often in a fog of her own it is highly doubtful… ah! Tea! Excellent.” He glared at the silver-haired man to ensure his silence.  
  
“Ta, Mrs H,” the DI said instead, smiling at her. She beamed at him. Such a handsome man, and always so protective of her darling boy. Not like that brother of his…  
  
“John wasn’t there?” she asked guilelessly.  
  
“How observant,” Sherlock snarled.  
  
“Oh, you shush,” she shot back. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”  
  
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing much of the doctor,” the detective declared carelessly.  
  
“What? Why?” She looked dumbfounded.  
  
“Seems me faking my suicide and disappearing for two years got him a bit angry.” Sherlock’s tone was mocking, and Mrs Hudson frowned at him as she handed him his cup of tea.  
  
“I don’t think anyone’s particularly thrilled with it,” she pointed out, handing Greg his cup. “But he was your—”  
  
“I don’t wish to talk about it anymore,” Sherlock interrupted tightly. “Don’t you have to go bake something?”  
  
“Don’t be rude. I’ll bring up something for you to nibble on later, all right?”  
  
“Thank you,” Lestrade finally said when it was clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to respond. He gave her an apologetic look as she walked out. “You wanker,” he hissed as soon as she was down the stairs. “Your manners certainly haven’t improved.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, engrossed in his tea.  
  
“Listen, I’ve got to get going soon, but can we talk a bit first?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock. What do you _think_ we have to talk about?” His voice rose.  
  
“I have to see my tailor about ordering some new suits.”  
  
“I’m not a child. Distracting me’s not going to work.” Lestrade ran his hand through his spikey hair. Sherlock shrugged again, still not looking at him. “Fine. How about I talk and you listen?”  
  
“Can I stop you?” He sounded bored.  
  
“Not really.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Very well,” he conceded.  
  
“Look. Everyone’s still in shock. Well, everyone but Anderson. I’m pretty sure he’s throwing a party. You were _dead,_ Sherlock. There was a body. I went to your funeral. John had a bloody breakdown. We had to hospitalise him. It’s taken almost the entire two years, but he was finally getting back to himself—and then you come along and ‘not dead’ and… have you even seen him?” Sherlock didn’t reply. The DI blew out an exasperated huff. “Well? Have you?”  
  
“I think it’s time to leave, Detective Inspector,” he finally responded tightly.  
  
Lestrade caught the strain in his voice. He could see that he was growing paler. “You all right?” he asked more calmly.  
  
“A bit… tired, I suppose.”  
  
“Why not get some rest? Let Mrs Hudson spoil you?”  
  
“Yes. Certainly. That’s what I’ll do.” He rose and, brushing past his guest, headed for the bedroom without another word.  
  
“Shit,” the older man commented to the empty room. “This is about as fucked up as it gets.”  
  
He let himself out.  
  
*  
  
Mr Holmes _noise_ where were you _crowd_ look over here _people_ how did you survive _data_ camera operator newly married _lights_ reporter impacted wisdom tooth _questions_  
  
All the questions—  
  
 _Where have you been?_  
  
 _What have you been doing?_  
  
 _Are you still suicidal?_  
  
 _Have you seen John?_  
  
He didn’t know. He didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. He still didn’t know if he had actually seen John or if it had been a dream. He hadn’t heard from him since; that was certain.  
  
He wanted to see John.  
  
Oh, God, he wanted to see John.  
  
He wanted to see him and hear him and touch him and smell him and taste him. He wanted those steady hands on him. He wanted  
  
He ached  
  
He _needed_  
  
The pillow did an excellent job of shutting out the noise and the light but it couldn’t shut out the questions—  
  
 _Had he seen John?_  
  
 _Did John want to see him?_  
  
 _Was he still suicidal?_  
  
He finally fell asleep—and dreamt about John.  
  



	7. Chapter 7

“God, it’s all over,” Mary commented, glancing at the trending reports on her iPad.  
  
 _Hat Detective Alive_  
  
 _Sherlock Holmes Alive!_  
  
 _Sherlock Is Not Dead_  
  
 _Detective Returns from the Dead_  
  
 _Sherlock Lives_  
  
Many of the reports included two-plus-year-old photos of the detective from the peak of his career. John appeared in several, usually standing slightly behind and to the side of the famous man. In one he was very clearly holding Sherlock’s elbow tightly and based on his expression was telling him something rather urgent.  
  
She tapped the screen. “Oh, here’s the press conference. Do you want to watch?” John shot her a fairly murderous look and she winced in sympathy. “Sorry,” she muttered.   
  
“I don’t need to see it. I saw _him,_ remember?” he growled. The shock had been completely supplanted by rage. Mary had eyed the new dent in the wall unhappily when she had arrived. John’s knuckles were clean now, but the scrapes were immediately apparent.  
  
“I’m sorry you have to go through this. I can’t imagine what it must be like. I mean, I’m gobsmacked, and I didn’t even know him. It’s outrageous. Fiction.”  
  
“Fiction? Ha! If I wrote this, he’d be down my throat for being too fantastic. I mean, how likely is all this? Famous detective fakes suicide to go undercover for two years to dismantle a global-wide crime syndicate run by… run by the host of a children’s program, who actually is, according to Sherlock, ‘The Napoleon of crime’? Utter rubbish.”  
  
“I’m sorry, John.”  
  
“And his brother! God! Two years they kept the truth from me. Two bloody years and not one word. And then he thinks he can just waltz in, order me to the flat, and present this burned-out, drugged-up shell of a man and demand that I take care of him?”  
  
Mary wasn’t sure if trying to block the next punch or trying to dodge it made more sense; one of them was going to get hurt either way.  
  
“Ow! Christ!” John roared.  
  
“John,” she said quietly.  
  
“That dickhead. Two dickheads. Fucking Holmeses. Wish I had never taken that flat. Wish I had never run into Stamford that day—”  
  
“John,” she repeated, a bit more firmly.  
  
“Two years of my life. He…” and his voice caught in his throat. He cleared it, but he continued in a much quieter voice. “He let me…” He stopped again, looking helplessly at Mary. His eyes were filling with tears. “He let me grieve…”  
  
Mary wrapped strong arms around him as he wept.  
  



	8. Chapter 8

“That was excellent. Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” Sherlock rose and put his clean— _clean_ —plate in the sink.  
  
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, dear. I still can’t quite believe my eyes…”  
  
“You’ve mentioned that. Several times,” he gently teased. She swatted him lightly on the shoulder. She was still in shock; she knew that. But she also knew that this was real. She had done him eggy bread and streaky bacon and he had eaten every bit.  
  
“You did a good job eating,” she commented.  
  
“No need to compliment me,” he replied a bit huffily. “I’m well over all that.”  
  
“That’s good, dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to bake some biscuits for the church sale.” She patted his shoulder and headed carefully down the stairs. Sherlock frowned at how much she was limping. Her hip was giving her quite a bit of pain. _And it’s my fault that it’s like that in the first place…_  
  
In Florida. It had happened in Florida. In Miami.  
  
Miami?  
  
Sherlock sprinted down the hall, but made it only as far as the bathroom basin before he lost his breakfast.  
  
*  
  
“Come on, John. I’ve left you five other messages on your phone; four at the surgery. Give us a call back, yeah?” Greg growled in frustration as he ended the call.  
  
*  
  
“Just popped round for a few minutes. I was in the area.”  
  
Sherlock looked up from his laptop at the DI. “Investigating something?” he said somewhat eagerly.  
  
“Erm… no. Shopping for a baby gift, actually.” Sherlock gave him a complicated look that made the older man laugh. “It’s for someone in my division.”  
  
“And they don’t have baby shops in your neighbourhood?”  
  
“Oh, stop it. You know I came to check on you.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. God, how he had missed that! He looked keenly at the younger man. “What are you up to today?” he asked casually.  
  
“Was going to go round to my tailor. Order some new suits,” Sherlock replied, equally casually.  
  
Lestrade sighed. “John won’t return my calls,” he admitted.  
  
The dark curls bounced as Sherlock nodded decisively. “Not unexpected. I realise that this has all been rather—odd.”  
  
“Just a bit. Come on. Why not come out with me; get a bite to eat?”  
  
“I just had something. Mrs Hudson’s been feeding me up.” He grimaced slightly.  
  
“Good. You need feeding up. You’re a right scarecrow. How are you feeling otherwise?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Yeah? You wouldn’t be pulling my leg, would you?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock responded in aggravation.  
  
“I mean, Sherlock, that in the past few weeks you’ve come back from the dead, weathered a media hurricane, and settled back into life here as if nothing had happened. It’s not normal.”  
  
“When have I ever been normal?” he demanded petulantly.  
  
“True,” he admitted, chuckling. “But seriously, don’t you want to see John?”  
  
“He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to see me,” he replied evenly, looking down at his laptop again.  
  
“That’s not what I asked,” the silver-haired man responded sharply. He strode over to the desk and squatted down, looking up into the familiar and still-amazing eyes. “Look, Sherlock. It’s _me._ I know what you were to each other, remember? I know _all_ of it. You can’t tell me that you don’t care that the love of your life doesn’t want to see you, or that you don’t care if you see him.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m rather busy here. Why don’t you go buy that ‘baby gift’ you’re so keen on?” He turned back to his laptop and began typing furiously.  
  
Lestrade sighed and headed out. There was no talking to him when he was like that.  
  
It was too bad that he hadn’t glanced at the monitor of Sherlock’s computer before he left, or he would have seen what he was typing into a popular search engine: _John Watson_  
  
*  
  
“Yeah, sorry. It’s just been a bit much to take in, you know?” John sighed deeply as he took a good-sized gulp of his beer.  
  
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Everyone’s still reeling. Anderson had to be admitted.” Greg took a sip of his own beer. “After the party. It was nice.”  
  
“You’d think of all people he’d be the most fine with it. He was the one who realised he was still alive. We were all too obtuse to see it.”  
  
“He was bonkers enough to believe the unbelievable,” the DI corrected.  
  
“Yeah, there’s that,” the doctor agreed, smiling grimly.  
  
“He wants to see you.” Greg knew that he was pushing it, but at this point he didn’t know what else to do.  
  
“He’s seen me,” John replied bitterly.  
  
Greg frowned. “When?”  
  
John frowned back, in confusion. “When he first got back. Did he not tell you?”  
  
Greg made a funny noise in his throat. “Erm… no. I must have brought it up a dozen times.”  
  
“Well, then. Obviously seeing me didn’t leave much of an impression.” He took another long pull on his drink.  
  
“He’s not all right, you know.”  
  
John put down his glass. “No, I don’t know,” he declared flatly.  
  
“Well, then I’m telling you. He’s not all right. I’ve seen him quite a bit—I go by every other day or so. He seems all right on the surface—claims he’s eating and busy ‘getting to know London again’ and all that, but… well.” He petered out, flustered.  
  
“Well, what?” John prompted, betraying his interest.  
  
“Well… it’s odd things. Like—like he keeps talking about going to his tailor to get new suits that fit, but he never goes. He’s wearing his old stuff and I keep waiting for his trousers to fall off completely, he’s so thin. He claims that he’s eating, and Mrs Hudson says that he is, but he looks worse every day. And he gets these sort of dizzy spells. Sort of wobbly, you know?”  
  
“What else?” John’s tone was flat; his face pinched.  
  
“God, John. What else? I caught him… I don’t even know how to say it.”  
  
John frowned in concern. He had been trying—very, very hard—to remain aloof, but he kept picturing what Greg was describing. It wasn’t difficult. He and Sherlock had been down those long, dark, twisted roads together far too many times. “Tell me. What else?” he urged.  
  
“Well, the flat’s pretty much how you both left it, you know? I mean, all the stuff’s still there. _All_ of it.”  
  
“And?” the doctor demanded grimly.  
  
“And… fuck, John. I walked in and he was sleeping, and he had his…” He had to stop and clear his throat. “He had that stuffed bee. He had his bee, John, and it honest to God nearly broke my heart.”  
  
John couldn’t reply.  
  
They sat in silence for a long time.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Midnight  
  
He stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.  
  
Bath.  
  
Yes.  
  
Fumbling with the taps. With the plug.   
  
Where was his special mat?  
  
Where were his toys?  
  
Little boys shouldn’t take baths by themselves.  
  
Where was his Daddy?  
  
*  
  
One o’clock  
  
In bed  
  
Naked  
  
All naked  
  
Naked in bed  
  
Naked in their bed  
  
Naked and alone in their bed  
  
He reached down and touched himself.  
  
God, he wanted to  
  
But he couldn’t  
  
It wouldn’t  
  
Fuck  
  
*  
  
Two o’clock  
  
Awake  
  
Not unusual  
  
In Vegas he would  
  
He barely made it to the toilet  
  
*  
  
Three o’clock  
  
Cold  
  
Back into bed  
  
Empty  
  
John’s side of the bed was  
  
Could he remember what John looked like?  
  
What he sounded like?  
  
He missed the sound of his voice.  
  
*  
  
Four o’clock  
  
Cold  
  
Shaking  
  
Wanting a hit  
  
Wanting more than a hit  
  
Wanting so much more than one hit  
  
It had been so much easier when he was  
  
When he was going  
  
What he had been doing  
  
Who he had been doing  
  
Who had he been doing?  
  
Cash customers were fine  
  
Coke customers were better  
  
*  
  
Five o’clock  
  
His head ached  
  
*  
  
Six o’clock  
  
The scar on his inner thigh burned  
  



	10. Chapter 10

“No.” He opened his newspaper.  
  
“John. I really think you should go see him. Talk to him.” She tucked her legs under herself and snuggled closer to him on the sofa.  
  
“No.” He was finding something on page 2 exceedingly interesting.  
  
“He’s been working. He solved that stupid Jack the Ripper masquerade in what… ten minutes?”  
  
“With Molly as his assistant and Greg told me that…” He stopped, his throat tight, and lowered the paper.  
  
“He told you what, love?” Mary put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
  
“He told me that he kept saying my name instead of hers.”  
  
“He wants to see you. You want to see him,” she murmured.  
  
Silence.  
  
“I’ll go with you. Would that be easier?” She stroked his cheek.  
  
John nodded, his mouth tight.  
  
“All right, then. That’s settled. How about on Sunday?”  
  
John nodded again, stiffly.  
  
*  
  
“You do… I mean, do you…” John stammered. It was six o’clock or so, and Mary pretended to be muzzy-headed with sleep. She had been deliberately careful about not letting John know how light a sleeper she was; how quickly she woke.  
  
“What’s that?” she sighed.  
  
“You’ll really go with me? To see him?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
A moment of silence.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“You do know that I get it?”  
  
“Get what?”  
  
“You were more than just friends, yeah?”  
  
A long silence. Shit.  
  
“Erm…”  
  
“It’s fine, John.”  
  
“What’s fine?”  
  
“John, you talk in your sleep.”  
  
“I what?”  
  
“It’s okay. But yeah, you talk in your sleep and sometimes it’s ‘Sherlock.’ Okay, a lot of the time it’s ‘Sherlock’ and you get… erm… you get hard.”  
  
“Oh, God.”  
  
“It’s fine, John.”  
  
“I’m not gay.”  
  
“No. I get it. Sexuality is a fluid thing. You were… erm…”  
  
“Sherlock-sexual?” He laughed bitterly.  
  
“Sure. It’s fine. I mean, I haven’t divulged everything to you,” she responded in a soothing tone.  
  
“What do you mean?” He sounded confused and exhausted and this was so hard sometimes.  
  
“I mean… well… there was another woman. Ages ago.”  
  
“Did you? Tell me about her.”  
  
“I… had this thing. For a woman that I worked with. She was…”  
  
“She was what?” His voice was warm; accepting.  
  
“She was elegant. You know? Smart clothes and hair and perfect nails. But really, really smart, too.” She sighed.  
  
“Were you in love?” She didn’t need to see John to know that he had that sweet, sad smile.  
  
“Yes. She was…” She surprised herself when her voice broke.  
  
“She was what?” he encouraged.  
  
She swallowed. Hard. Say it. Yes. “She was everything to me.”  
  
 _When undercover, when at all possible, be honest. Fewer lies means fewer mistakes._  
  
When Mary thought about it, her fingers twitched. Oh, God, please.   
  
Please let her meet her tormenter face to face.   
  
Before she blew it away.  
  



	11. Chapter 11

The sound was hauntingly familiar and somehow horribly wrong all at the same time. Martha Hudson wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered, looking up at her ceiling as if she could see through it to the flat above. She wondered if he had the windows open; if anyone else could hear it.  
  
He had finally taken out his violin. But from the sound of it, it was as if he had forgotten how to play.  
  
*  
  
“I’m excited,” Mary exclaimed. “Let’s get you packed.”  
  
John was moving in with her.  
  
She had already hidden her tools; her clothes and her guns.  
  
*  
  
It just made sense—that was it. He spent the night there more often than not, now. Knowing that his own flat was being paid for by Mycroft Holmes had been difficult enough before. Now he found that he couldn’t bear to be there at all. If he paid towards Mary’s rent, he could afford it.  
  
*  
  
“No. There’s no need to keep it. Pay off the rest of the lease and cancel it.”  
  
John Watson was moving in with his girlfriend. Mary Morstan—according to the reports, an unremarkable woman with an unremarkable life. Orphan. School. Nurse. A few friends. Liked cats.  
  
Mycroft didn’t need to pay John Watson’s rent any longer.  
  
*  
  
“Do you want me there?” Greg asked.  
  
“No. Mary’s going with me.”  
  
“Yeah? You two getting serious?”  
  
“I’m moving in with her, if that’s what you mean.”  
  
“Oh! Good. Good for you, John. So you’re going over on Sunday?”  
  
“I’m going to let Mrs Hudson know. I’ll phone her on Saturday.”  
  
“Good idea. Talk to you after?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
*  
  
John was moving in with his girlfriend. With Mary. Shit. Greg drummed his fingers on his desk. Not at all what he had been expecting. Really surprised, actually, as John hadn’t seemed too terribly keen on her. Not that he didn’t like her, but it didn’t seem like it was going in the direction of “moving in together.” And then Sherlock had reappeared and…  
  
Oh.  
  
He wondered if John had any idea that he was acting not out of affection for and expectation of Mary, but out of rage toward and grief for Sherlock.  
  
He wondered if he should tell him.  
  
He wondered if he should have his head examined.  
  
Sighing, DI Lestrade pulled a file across his desk and flipped it open. The paperwork was never done, was it?  
  
*  
  
His G string.  
  
It was always his G string.  
  
It had taken him ages to restring the damn thing. It wasn’t that he had forgotten how. It was just odd—he didn’t seem to have much control over his hands. He had noticed that before. He had been trying to prepare some slides—nothing too exciting; he just wanted to examine the dust from different parts of the flat—but he hadn’t been able to hold anything steady and he’d done an awful job and couldn’t manage the coverslips at all.  
  
But now he had restrung it  
  
His violin  
  
Oh, God, just to have it back in his hands  
  
He had missed this almost as much as he had missed J… London  
  
But when he raised it to his chin  
  
Blast  
  
Hit himself in the chin  
  
Freshly-rosined bow  
  
Need to tune it  
  
Damn  
  
In order to tune it he needed to be able to hold everything steady  
  
The bow  
  
The violin  
  
Himself  
  
It took two tries just to get the damn bow on the strings  
  
And how was he supposed to turn the bloody pegs when he couldn’t get his bloody fingers to work?  
  
*  
  
Oh, thank goodness. He had apparently given up on the violin for the moment, and the house was quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the ringing mobile startled her. Mrs Hudson fumbled it from the pocket of her cardigan and looked at the display.  
  
*John Watson*  
  
About bloody time. She answered.  
  
*  
  
“No, I won’t let him know. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
  
She rang off and sat back. Well. It was about time. John was coming home.  
  
She debated bringing something up for him to eat. She didn’t want him to know about John’s visit, and she knew that her face would give it away. She decided that she would risk it. He was unlikely to feed himself, and she didn’t want him missing a meal. It was so odd. He was eating. She saw him actually consuming food, but despite that, he seemed paler and thinner every day. The stress of it all, she supposed.  
  
John would be there on Sunday. He was a doctor. He was Sherlock’s doctor. Good. Just what he needed.  
  
She rose and gathered what she needed to make him a sandwich.  
  
*  
  
Well, that had been easy, she reflected uneasily. Engrossed in a book, he had barely glanced at her. He thanked her politely for the food and without pausing in his reading he had picked up the sandwich and eaten it. She watched him. She was positive he had eaten. She took away the empty plate and headed back downstairs.  
  
She had recognised the book and thinking about it now, tears wet her cheeks.  
  
_Please come home soon, John,_ she thought. _He needs you._  
  
He had been reading _The House at Pooh Corner._  
  
*  
  
Mycroft sighed and turned away from the monitor. He had watched in utter misery as his baby brother had attempted to play his violin. It had been a disaster. Now the violin had been thrown carelessly onto the desk and the bow was on the floor. He had wandered around the flat aimlessly for a bit after he had abandoned them, and then he had begun to search for something.  
  
There. Under his chair. A stack of slim volumes. He had sighed in contentment as he chose one and, curling up in his chair, began to read.  
  
Oh, dear Mrs Hudson. For all of her fussing, she really was a Godsend, coming up with food for him on a regular basis. But now she had headed back to her flat and his brother was alone again. Still reading.  
  
When he put his thumb in his mouth, Mycroft had turned away.  
  
*  
  
He had read until it was too dark to see the words. Frowning, he looked up. Why was it so dark? Was it night time?  
  
Yes, it was, and he was alone in the flat. In the dark.  
  
He whimpered.  
  
Where was his bee? It was dark and scary and the bedroom was too far away. He curled up more tightly in his dressing gown.  
  
It was dark and scary and he was alone and where was Daddy?  
  



	12. Chapter 12

“John!” Sherlock jumped hastily out of his chair, straightening his dressing gown with urgent tugs.   
  
John looked him up and down. He was wearing a buttoned shirt and trousers underneath the dressing gown. His feet were bare. His hair was a mess. He had been sleeping or maybe just daydreaming in his chair. There was a book on the floor next to it.  
  
“Hello, Sherlock,” the doctor said evenly. “Is this an all right time for a visit?”  
  
“Certainly. Come in,” his—his former—his friend replied in an overly casual manner. As if they hadn’t been apart for two years. As if he hadn’t played an awful, horrid trick on him. As if nothing was wrong.   
  
“Come on,” he said over his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock stiffened, his eyes opening wide.  
  
“Sherlock, this is Mary Morstan. Mary, this is Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock slid the book under his chair with his foot.  
  
*  
  
She was short. Well, that made sense. John wasn’t exactly tall. She had wide eyes and a curving smile and short blond hair and sensible shoes and horrible jeans and  
  
 _only child clever linguist part time nurse shortsighted guardian bakes own bread disillusioned cat lover romantic appendix scar lib dem secret tattoo size 12 liar_  
  
“Won’t you come in?” he said politely. “Tea?”  
  
“This is amazing. I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” she beamed.  
  
“Well, no. Until a few weeks ago that seemed rather unlikely,” he replied rudely.  
  
“Sherlock,” John frowned.  
  
“Oh, don’t start arguing,” Mary pleaded. “I know that this is hard, and awkward, but Sherlock, John just wanted to see you.”  
  
“So he’s seen me now,” he responded flatly. He turned towards the kitchen and began setting out the formal “guest” tea things. Funny, the last time he had done that was…  
  
“Sherlock? You all right?” A hand at the small of back steadied him.  
  
“Mmm. Sure.” He gripped the counter and waited for his vision to clear.  
  
“Why don’t I do that?” the doctor suggested. “You go sit down. You look like crap.”  
  
“Is that your professional medical opinion, _Doctor_?” he shot back obnoxiously.  
  
“Yeah, it is. Observation: Patient looks like crap. Go sit down.” He pushed gently and Sherlock retreated to the sitting room. Mary was sitting on the sofa, looking around with interest, and he swept his eyes over her keenly. Now she turned her attention to the detective.  
  
“Sherlock. Come sit down.”  
  
“No thank you.”  
  
“Well, I’ll go help John with the tea, then,” she offered.  
  
“Fine,” he shrugged.  
  
He watched after her; was that normal, pacing off someone’s flat?  
  
 _only child clever linguist disillusioned cat lover appendix scar secret tattoo liar_  
  
Noting the position of the windows?  
  
What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? He had wanted John back. _His_ John. Not…  
  
 _clever linguist disillusioned cat lover secret liar_  
  
He had known that John would get on with his life, hadn’t he? Get on with…  
  
Casually brushing her fingers over the knob of the door leading directly from the kitchen to the hallway; a subtle tug.  
  
 _clever disillusioned lover liar_  
  
No, he hadn’t. It had never once crossed his mind. He hadn’t predicted any of it correctly. Not John’s reaction to his jump. Not how much it would change him. How much it would change them. How much he had changed himself…  
  
Why did she have two mobiles?  
  
 _disillusioned liar_  
  
“Here we go!” Mary exclaimed cheerily, blushing slightly at the rather pained looks from both John and Sherlock.  
  
Oh. That was why.  
  
 _liar_  
  
“I can’t do this. Get out.” Sherlock shoved past them and down the hall, slamming the bedroom door; John heard the distinct sound of a bolt being engaged. From the inside. He followed and stood in the hallway, brushing his fingers over the holes that showed where the bolt he had installed to keep Sherlock in had been; a bolt that was now clearly installed on the other side of their bedroom door.  
  
No. _The_ bedroom door.  
  
 _Sherlock’s_ bedroom door.  
  
Not theirs. Not anymore.  
  
Mary stood in the middle of the sitting room, holding the tray of tea things. She had wanted nothing more than to throw the scalding hot water into that smug, arrogant face.  
  
John knocked on the door. “Sherlock? Come on. I really do want to talk to you.”  
  
She clenched her jaw, her back to John as she put the tray on the kitchen counter.  
  
“Please? We really need to talk.”  
  
Ground her teeth slightly as she headed down the hallway… and jumped when a loud THUD echoed down the hallway; John leapt back from the door, eyes wide.  
  
She stood in the hallway and watched him. Ex-army Captain Watson squared his broad shoulders, his face tight and angry. He stepped up to the door again and pounded on it. “FUCK, SHERLOCK! Stop throwing things at this door and OPEN it for me.”  
  
“GET OUT!” the deep voice roared from inside.  
  
“Nope. I’m not leaving until we talk, face to face.”  
  
There was a moment of silence. Mary listened intently, but it was only John, his ear now pressed to the door, who heard whatever response there was.   
  
“All right. Just for now, understand?” he replied, turning to her. “Mary, I’m sorry. He won’t come out unless you leave.”  
  
“Oh! Oh. Well, that’s understandable. I was a bit of an unpleasant surprise, I suppose. Why don’t I just toddle along? I want to get more of your things settled, anyway. Will you be home for supper?”  
  
“I don’t know. I think I have to deal with this.”  
  
“Understood. Ring me?”  
  
“Of course.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you for being so understanding.”  
  
“Of course, my love. It’s probably going to be a while before everything gets sorted out. Bye!”  
  
She waved at him as she showed herself out.  
  
*  
  
Fuck  
  
FUCK FUCK FUCK  
  
That was not what she had wanted to happen. In fact, it was the last thing she had wanted. John and Sherlock could not be alone together. She despised the miraculous detective, but she knew that John still loved him, and his relationship with her was still too new to have supplanted the prior one. Even with him moving in with her, things were shaky. She was doing everything she could, but John Watson was a far more complicated man, and far more intelligent, than anyone she knew had given him credit for. Damn. She had been shadowing the man for two years; she should have realised it herself.  
  
As soon as she had turned the corner from the flat, she pulled out her second mobile; there was an urgent text that she needed to send.  
  
*  
  
“Come on, Sherlock. Let me in. I just want to talk with you.”  
  
…  
  
“This is getting really annoying.”  
  
…  
  
“You know I can probably break that bolt.”  
  
…  
  
“You’re really starting to tick me off, you prick.”  
  
…  
  
“Sherlock, please.”  
  
…  
  
“I’ll just go wait in the other room and you come out when you feel like it, all right?”  
  
*  
  
His eyes were drawn to the myriad of maps taped haphazardly over and across one another. He examined them carefully. They were from all over the world and covered in marker—mostly Xs, but there were some instances of a symbol—a circle around a dot—that looked somewhat like a target. He leaned in, noting the targets marking New York, Miami, New Orleans—Las Vegas? It was a fairly typical Sherlock-case-solving creation.  
  
Except that instead of being over the sofa, it covered the mirror over the fireplace—entirely.  
  
“All the maps…” John whispered to himself.  
  
*  
  
John was different.  
  
Same awful taste in jumpers; same mundane taste in sensible shoes. Same military haircut and bearing and commanding voice (he had liked it when at one point on that first evening that commanding voice had commanded Mycroft to bugger off—so that apparently _had_ happened). So what was different?  
  
His face.  
  
More lines. Frown lines. Sad lines. John looked older.  
  
Why did the chair and the curtains and the books and everything look the same—while John looked so much older? His head ached. He didn’t come out of the bedroom until he heard the familiar footsteps as they headed down the stairs and out the street door.  
  
*   
  
“He’s not taking any more cases.” Greg fidgeted with the silverware. It didn’t look terribly clean.  
  
“Has he been offered any?” John’s hands gripped his knees tightly under the small table.  
  
“Yes and no. I mean, no real cases; more like thrill-seekers. You know—people who just want to get a glimpse of the ‘famous detective back from the dead’.”  
  
John felt something tighten in his chest. He couldn’t imagine how insulted Sherlock must be. Or was he? How changed was he? “So what is he doing?”  
  
“Other than irritating your landlady? I have no idea.” Greg’s fingers tapped on the table nervously.  
  
“She’s not my landlady anymore!” John snapped. “Oh, God. Greg… I am so sorry.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Greg replied tiredly.  
  
“He just drives me mad sometimes.”  
  
“Have you been back to see him?”  
  
They paused as the server arrived with their lunches. Nothing terribly exciting. It didn’t matter. The server moved to the next table and they picked up their conversation.  
  
“Since attempting to introduce him to Mary? No. It was a nightmare. He locked himself in the bedroom while she was still there, and then we proceeded to have a shouting match through the door for half an hour before I gave up.”  
  
“Why didn’t you—”  
  
“He moved the bolt to the inside.”  
  
“That’s not good,” Greg muttered, his imagination kicking in. He envisioned it: emergency responders having to break the door down; hauling him out of the room, gaunt and grey and unconscious; was he breathing? He shuddered. “I’ll get rid of it next time I’m there, yeah?”  
  
“If he lets you.”  
  
“I’m not waiting to get his permission.”  
  
“Yeah. Good.”  
  
*  
  
He yanked at the bedroom door, wrenching his wrist as the door held fast. He glared at the bolt in confusion. When had John moved the bolt to the inside? He remembered when he had installed it on the outside.  
  
To keep him safe—from himself.  
  
The anguish on the doctor’s face when he told him that had made Sherlock turn away.  
  



	13. Chapter 13

“Mrs Hudson?” John had answered his phone with trepidation.  
  
“John, you need to come home.” No beating around the bush.  
  
“Mrs Hudson…” He paused. What was the best way to put it? Her meddling would drive anyone to distraction, but he did care for her dearly and knew she was only acting the way she did out of her great love for Sherlock. “I tried to visit. It didn’t go well.”  
  
“Oh, I heard you, shouting at each other. What did you expect? You come waltzing in here with that _woman_ —what’s her name? —and expect him to just accept it?”  
  
“Hey!” he shot back. “Let’s not forget what he expected me to ‘just accept.’ Two years. TWO YEARS of hell. He can’t just wave a magic wand and make it all disappear, now, can he?”  
  
“No, of course not, and I’m not saying that what he did was all right. Not in the slightest. But he is back, and he is sorry. I just know he is.”  
  
“Maybe that would have more weight if he said it to me himself.”  
  
“I have mentioned that to him.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“John! He’s not well. He’s doing a good job pretending, but it’s obvious that he’s… he’s not all right. Not at all, really.”  
  
Her voice shook and John felt his fury melting away. His heart was beginning to fill with something more like dread instead. “What, precisely?” he asked, having to lick his suddenly-dry lips. “What’s he been doing?”  
  
“He tried…” She bit her lip and swallowed.  
  
“Go on,” John encouraged gently.  
  
“He tried to play his violin. Oh, John, it was dreadful. He couldn’t even tune it; gave up after ten minutes. And there’s his clothes.”  
  
“What about them?”  
  
“He’s said to me at least three times that he’s going to go round to his tailor; order something that fits properly, but he never does.”  
  
John frowned. Greg had mentioned that, as well. Why of all things was he stuck on that? “What else?” he asked, not really wanting to hear more.  
  
“I just get the oddest feeling that he’s only doing things—normal things, like eating—when there’s someone to notice. I go up and he’s in those ratty old pyjamas and his oldest dressing gown, and as soon as I walk through the door, it’s ‘I was just about to have a bath and get dressed.’ I bring him something to nibble on and suddenly it’s ‘I was just going to make tea.’ He thinks he’s fooling me—well, I let him think that—but he just doesn’t _look_ right. His eyes don’t. Sometimes he looks around like he’s not even sure of where he is. Oh, please, John! Please come see him.”  
  
John groaned and ran his free hand through his hair, his eyes tightly shut. “Yeah. Yeah. All right. I’ll try again.”  
  
“And John… come alone.”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” He poked his head into the flat.  
  
“Hullo?” came a quiet voice. Oh, there he was—sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. Actually, he had created a sort of nest out of sofa and chair cushions. What was he doing? John couldn’t see, and he slid whatever it was under his chair hurriedly.   
  
“Can I come in?”  
  
“Yes?” He replied so hesitantly that John frowned; it wasn’t as if his answer was unsure—it was more as if he didn’t really understand the question. He strode over and sat in his chair, unasked.  
  
“What are you up to?” he asked casually.  
  
“Nothing?”  
  
“You’re sitting on the floor doing nothing?”  
  
“I was just going to…” his eyes flicked around the flat, falling on his laptop, which was perched on the coffee table. “… check my e-mail.”  
  
 _Liar._ He could see what Mrs Hudson had been talking about. There was a certain—well—detached quality about him. Not his familiar “tuning out the stupid world” mood, either. It seemed more like—  
  
“Sherlock,” he said slowly. “Do you know where you are?”  
  
“What? Of course.” His voice didn’t have half his usual vehemence in it.  
  
“So tell me. Where are you?”  
  
“I’m… here.” His eyes darted about as he scanned for clues as to where “here” was.  
  
“Could you be more specific?”  
  
“Umm… flat?”  
  
“Good. Now, where is the flat?”  
  
…  
  
After a moment, John released him. “It’s all right. If you can’t remember just now, that’s all right.”  
  
“John?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“If I don’t know where I am, how will you come find me?”  
  
John was out of the chair and on his knees, wrapping his arms around the man that he had missed so very, very much. Was still missing—because the trembling shell he held and rocked gently was most assuredly not his Sherlock.  
  
After a while, the younger man whimpered. “What’s wrong?” the doctor asked, pulling back to look at his face.  
  
“Head hurts.”  
  
“Do you want to lie down for a bit?” He was already getting to his feet and reaching down to help him up. Sherlock nodded and John helped him to the bedroom. The bed was bare—all of the bedding was on the floor. He made it up efficiently, plumping the pillows. “Lie down,” he invited and Sherlock collapsed onto the mattress. He was asleep almost immediately.  
  
John brushed a hand across the newly-placed bolt before he crept back to the sitting room. He debated removing it, but wasn’t sure if that would create too much noise. Instead, he headed directly for Sherlock’s chair, squatting down and rummaging underneath it. His fingers touched something—yes. Paper. He pulled several sheets of paper out.  
  
And several crayons.  
  
*  
  
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?” Sherlock demanded. He had emerged from the bedroom after about an hour, bleary-eyed and rumpled.  
  
“I still have my key,” the doctor replied evenly, trying not to reveal his concern over the fact that Sherlock apparently didn’t remember him coming in earlier.  
  
“I’ll have that back,” he hissed, holding out his hand. Instead of handing him the key, John handed him a piece of paper. “What?” he snarled.  
  
“Look at it, please.”  
  
“Why? What…” He glanced down at it. “What is this?”  
  
“You tell me.”  
  
He sighed and turned his full attention to it. “Child’s drawing. Not badly drawn. Left-handed. It appears to be…” he frowned. “It appears to be a crime scene. Corpse here, on the pavement in front of a tall building—the top’s not in the frame.” He indicated with his finger. “Blood about the head. No weapon in evidence. Victim’s well dressed—black trousers; dress shoes. Long, dark coat.”  
  
John made an odd noise in his throat.  
  
“Is this a case? Was a child a witness?”  
  
“Damn it, Sherlock!” John suddenly burst out in anguish. “No, it’s not. Would you look at the initials in the corner?” Baffled by this, the detective peered at the paper again. “You’re covering them with your thumb,” the doctor sighed, “and you can’t tell me that’s not deliberate.”  
  
“What is wrong with you?” He switched hands, exposing the initials. “So?”  
  
“Don’t they look familiar?”  
  
“I am familiar with the alphabet, yes,” he snarled.  
  
“Which letters?” John pursued.  
  
“S. H. They’re my initials. So?”  
  
“That’s it, you idiot. They’re your initials.”  
  
They stared at each other, at an impasse. “You’re on about something,” Sherlock finally acknowledged.  
  
“Sherlock, I don’t mean those are the same initials as yours. I mean that they are _your_ initials. You wrote them.”  
  
“Why would I do that?”  
  
“Why are you not getting this? _You drew this._ ”  
  
“I did what?” Sherlock sounded outraged.  
  
“And not only that, do you realise _what you drew_?”  
  
“Are you all right? You’re not making any sense.” Sherlock peered at him curiously.  
  
“I’m fine. You—I have no idea what you are. You’re not all right, that’s certain.”  
  
“Get out.” Sherlock released the drawing and John watched it drift slowly to the floor.  
  
“No.” John rose and stood calmly directly in front of the taller man, his arms crossed; feet planted. “I’m staying, and we are going to talk about this.”  
  
Sherlock spun around, clearly intending to either retreat to the bedroom or to head out of the flat entirely. John was equally decisive; the thin man was staying and talking if he had to sit on him.  
  
But the simple act of grabbing a thin wrist as Sherlock whirled around had a rather terrifying effect. “DON’T TOUCH ME!” he shouted, his voice not deep with rage, but instead tight with—fear.  
  
He was terrified.  
  
John dropped his wrist, expecting him to bolt, but instead he now seemed to be paralysed with the intensity of his terror. He stood stock still, what little colour he had in his face rapidly fading away, taking uneven breaths. John held his hands up. “Okay, I’m not touching you,” he said in as calm a voice as he could manage. “But I think that you should sit down,” he added, nodding toward the closest chair.  
  
“Get OUT!”  
  
Hallway. Bedroom. Bolt.  
  
Shit.  
  
*  
  
“Where were you?” Mary demanded— _dial it back,_ she told herself.  
  
“Out,” he responded tersely.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
He stalked off to the bathroom and she stared at his retreating figure. Had he been to see Sherlock? She was fairly certain he had.  
  
Fuck.


	14. Chapter 14

_only child clever linguist part time nurse short sighted guardian bakes own bread disillusioned cat lover romantic appendix scar lib dem secret tattoo size 12 liar_   
  
  
  
_only child clever linguist disillusioned cat lover appendix scar secret tattoo liar_   
  
  
  
_clever linguist disillusioned cat lover secret liar_   
  
  
  
_clever disillusioned lover liar_   
  
  
  
_disillusioned liar_   
  
  
  
_liar_   
  
  
  
_liar_   
  
  
  
_liar_   
  
  
  
_liar_   
  
  
  



	15. Chapter 15

“Sherlock! Finally!”  
  
The detective smiled warmly at Angelo in return. He held out his hand, but the restaurant owner swept him into a bear hug instead. His smile became a bit forced and he winced. Finally, he was released.  
  
“My God! You’re nothing but skin and bones. Sit down.” He indicated the front table that Sherlock had once graced so often. “You have to eat,” he told him, patting his shoulder enthusiastically. “I don’t know where you’ve been, but the food must have been crap.”  
  
 _I don’t know where I’ve been, and I don’t remember eating, let alone recall what the food was like,_ Sherlock wanted to say. Instead he accepted the menu that Angelo was thrusting at him. “You’re doing well—the business is,” he commented, noting that it was newly designed and printed.  
  
“Things are good,” he replied. “How about some wine to start?”  
  
“That would be delightful.”  
  
He waved one of his waiters over.  
  
*  
  
“Ash!” Terry hissed, ducking into the kitchen.  
  
“What?” Ash looked up lazily from his mobile. It was between the lunch and dinner rush on a slow day, and there wasn’t much to do.  
  
“Come out and look at this.” He slapped the slip for the order he had taken onto the rack and yanked at the other waiter’s arm.  
  
“Oi! Enough with the manhandling,” Ash protested. He allowed himself to be dragged out of the kitchen and into the nearly empty dining room.  
  
“There,” Terry said urgently, pointing to the front of the restaurant.  
  
Ash looked, a smile of amusement on his lips. Probably some minor celebrity. They occasionally saw some semi-famous actors. He glanced toward the window—and his smile disappeared from his lips.  
  
Shit.  
  
“It’s him! It’s Sherlock Holmes!” Terry whispered. “Angelo’s had that table reserved for him for two years.”  
  
“Yeah… erm. Get back in here.” Ash dragged his mate back into the kitchen. The chef glanced at them oddly, then went back to preparing the light seafood dish that had been ordered.  
  
“What?” Terry protested. “I want to see him!”  
  
“You git. Don’t you remember?”  
  
“Remember what?”  
  
“That night in the park. Remember that guy we found—the one with the bashed-up face?” Terry looked at Ash blankly for a second. “The one… he was like a big kid. We brought him to the police station.”  
  
“Yeah. Course I remember. What about… oh shit.” Terry put his hand to his mouth. He realised what Ash was talking about. Or more precisely—who.  
  
“I never in a million years put two and two together,” Ash whispered. “I mean, he was such a mess, I don’t think his own mum would’ve recognised him that night. But it had to be him. Remember his name?”  
  
Terry nodded numbly. “Yeah. He called himself ‘Lock.”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock swirled the pleasant Spanish red wine in his glass. “This is excellent,” he commented finally.  
  
“I knew you would like it,” Angelo admitted. “The very first time I laid it in, I thought of you.”  
  
Sherlock smiled a bit sadly and raised his glass, watching the light as it penetrated the red liquid. He took another sip, then leaned back thoughtfully. “Ripe fruit. Spice. Smoke. Chocolate?” He raised his eyebrow in mock surprise on his last word.  
  
“You haven’t lost your palate,” Angelo commented.  
  
“No. I think I misplaced it for a bit, though,” he admitted.  
  
“Where were you?” the proprietor finally demanded.  
  
“I can’t say.” He hoped that Angelo would take that to mean that he could not reveal any secrets.  
  
“You don’t know where you’ve been?” Nope. Damn.  
  
“Not exactly, no,” he admitted. “I’d rather not talk about it.”  
  
Angelo nodded. “I understand. Of course. John must be so happy having you back.”  
  
The thin man tried to mask his frown by taking another sip.  
  
“Where _is_ John?”  
  
Damn.  
  
*  
  
“Fuck. What should we do?” Terry hissed.  
  
“I don’t know. Maybe he won’t remember us.” Ash peeked out into the dining room again.  
  
“He was pretty fucked up,” Terry agreed slowly. “I mean… all that talk about Daddy and Uncle—who was it?”  
  
“Uhh… George?”  
  
“No. No. Gavin?”  
  
“Grant?”  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Are you two not back together?”  
  
“We’re not a couple,” Sherlock stated flatly, ending the conversation.  
  
*  
  
Angelo beamed as Ash delivered Sherlock’s meal, not noticing his employee’s somewhat odd behaviour. As he had instructed, it was a smaller-than-usual serving, and the side dish was exactly that—plain peas in a small bowl. He watched intently as the younger man reached out tentatively—good Lord his hands were shaking—and picked up his spoon.  
  
*  
  
“We could just go over,” Ash mulled. “I mean, he’s like a celebrity and all that, right?”  
  
“Well, yeah, that’s true. Are you sure he won’t remember us?”  
  
“I doubt it. I was just over there now and he didn’t look twice at me. He was off his rocker that night. Probably had concussion. Remember how he got sick?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah… he probably wouldn’t remember us. Glad to see he’s all right though. He was a wreck.” Terry shook his head at the memory.  
  
“Yeah. God, he’s thin. Angelo’s going to force-feed him if he’s not careful.”  
  
“Do you think the boss’d mind if we went over?”  
  
“Nah. I mean, it’s not like he’s hiding out or anything, right?” Ash reasoned. “Angelo’s been going on for years about what good friends they were.”  
  
“Yeah. All right. Do you think he’ll want dessert?” Terry picked up a small dessert menu, twirling it thoughtfully between his fingers.  
  
*  
  
Angelo poured both of them a second glass of wine. He beamed at the sight of the thin man’s plate. It was nearly empty, and the small bowl of peas beside it had been polished off. “You liked it?” he asked, nodding at the plate.  
  
“Excellent. You’ve tweaked the recipe a bit.”  
  
“I knew that you would notice.”  
  
“Dessert?” Angelo glanced up. It was Terry, offering the menu and trying very hard to look casual. He was crap at it. He sighed.  
  
“Sherlock, this is Terry. The other one’s Ash. I think they’d like to meet you.”  
  
Sherlock frowned, but his dark expression cleared quickly. “Of course. Anything for you.”  
  
  
  
 _after hours never customers both waiters darkest nights older alarms_  
  
  
  
*  
  
“He’s just like Angelo said,” Ash said excitedly. “And he’s right—you should get that mole looked at.”  
  
“Yeah. Sure. That was definitely him, though,” Terry mused. “I wonder what happened to him—that night, I mean. Why he was so fucked up.”  
  
“Concussion, like I said,” Ash reiterated.  
  
“Yeah, but why would that make him talk like that—like a little kid? I’ve had concussion and I wasn’t like that.”  
  
“Dunno. He was doing some big covert operation whilst he was away. Maybe he got tortured? Drugged?”  
  
“Yeah. Probably. God. That’s awful. Do your bit for Queen and country and come back like that?” Terry shook his head in sympathy.  
  
“He seems pretty all right now.” Ash glanced out.  
  
“Better bring him his dessert,” Terry pointed out.  
  
“Oh, right.”  
  
*  
  
“How about a bottle or two to take home?” Angelo suggested. He had already sent Ash back to the kitchen to package up the uneaten (well, unserved) portion of Sherlock’s meal. He had wanted to continue their talk, but he could see signs of fatigue in his old friend. He wished fervently that John was there to take care of him.  
  
“That would be very nice,” the pale creature in front of him nodded, a genuine, warm smile on his face. “You always take such good care of me.” He had seen the wine on the list and knew that it wasn’t too dear. He enjoyed being indulged, but Angelo did have a legitimate business to  
  
 _run park cold dark_  
  
He closed his eyes for a second. “I do think it’s time for me to head home,” he admitted when he reopened them. He sounded exhausted.  
  
“You’ll be all right by yourself?” Angelo asked anxiously.  
  
“Alone is... fine,” he had answered, the shadow passing over his face before Angelo could catch it.  
  
After helping him on with his coat, Angelo shook his hand energetically and gave him a large bag with two bottles of wine and a collection of light, fresh dishes that he hoped the thin man would consider eating before he blew away. He looked thoughtfully out the door after him as he walked off. He moved more slowly than he once had, and there was something somehow smaller about him…  
  
He shook his head. Dreaming, and here it was, nearly time for the dinner rush. “Ash! Terry! Get your arses out here,” he shouted.  
  
*  
  
Perhaps he shouldn’t have opened the bottle. He had had two very nice glasses of wine with dinner; that should have been enough. But when he got back to the flat it was cold and quiet and dark and empty and horrid and he didn’t want to think about that so he turned on all the lights, lit the fire, selected some music, and sat down to have a few more drinks.  
  
Because now the flat was warm and filled with sound and light and—it was still empty.  
  
That was why he had opened the bottle.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock lurched slightly as he turned from the window, where he had been looking to the street below. He could see the people hurrying by—did they all have someone to meet; some place to go?  
  
Why didn’t he? Why didn’t he have someone to meet?  
  
Where would he go? Where could he go?  
  
Why wasn’t anyone coming to see him?  
  
He had stared down at the pavement for an hour, automatically emptying and refilling his glass—he held the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other.  
  
It wasn’t a wine glass. It was a regular glass. He hadn’t been able to find a wine glass.  
  
He had no idea where anything was supposed to go.  
  
He stared out the window until the wine was all gone and he knew for sure that John wasn’t striding down the pavement, looking eagerly up at their windows the way he used to when he was coming home from work.  
  
He knew that he should let it go. About John.  
  
He let go of the bottle instead. Oops. Good thing it was empty.  
  
*  
  
“Ash?” he mulled. He had somehow changed into ancient, shapeless pyjamas bottoms (he had no intention whatsoever of getting new ones but he really must get to his tailor and see about some suits that fit properly) and a t-shirt and dragged a dressing gown over his thin shoulders and shivered while he did so; it was cold in the bedroom.  
  
Now he was sprawled on the sofa. He had attempted to read, but the words and letters were tilting at windmills and…  
  
Oh…  
  
Really should not have had all that wine, and so quickly.  
  
He swallowed hard.  
  
He did not feel particularly well. He wiped his forehead (when had it gotten so hot?), his fingers brushing over the odd bit of scarred skin at his temple—a souvenir of his little adventure, apparently. It had happened shortly before Mycroft and his minions had picked him up. He didn’t remember it—not exactly. He did have a dim recollection.  
  
Dim. Dark.  
  
Light and dark all muddled. Cold ground. Voices. Wet. A park. Night. Wanting—what had he wanted? It was like trying to remember a dream. He shut his eyes—the room was spinning and it was distracting.  
  
Ash. He knew ash. Why did he know ash?  
  
A for ash. B for… bee?  
  
He knew Ash.  
  
Ash knew him.  
  
Oh God…  
  
He was grateful that the kitchen sink was so handy.  
  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

“Look, I know this is hard, but you were friends before you were… a couple, right?” Greg felt like his head was going explode.  
  
“A couple of what? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock drawled. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am rather busy.” He swept out of the flat, leaving Greg alone in the sitting room.  
  
*   
  
“John, I understand that this is mad—believe me—but you’ve got to come see him.” Greg fiddled with the two parts of the bolt that he had removed from inside the bedroom door before shoving them deep into his pocket.  
  
“I’ve tried three times. No. No more,” he snapped back adamantly.  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mary sighed. “I thought I’d try this new recipe.”  
  
“What? No, it’s fine. I’m just not hungry.” John poked at the pork medallions smothered in mushrooms. He couldn’t bear the thought of putting even one bite in his mouth.  
  
*  
  
“Speak quickly. You’re boring me already.”  
  
The potential client walked out, his mouth open in shock.  
  
*  
  
“Doctor Watson… John… I think you need to take a leave of absence.”  
  
“No. Why?”  
  
“That’s the third time this week you’ve gotten patient’s records mixed up.”  
  
“Did I?”  
  
“Well, yes. You did just tell someone that he had gonorrhoea.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“He came in for a football injury—twisted knee?”  
  
“Wait. I told someone that he had gonorrhoea—of the knee?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Maybe I should take a few days off?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
*  
  
“I said, go home before I have to have you locked up for interfering with an investigation.”  
  
Sherlock walked away from Lestrade and his team, utterly baffled.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock! There’s rude and there’s outrageous. I will call your mother.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“You just told that nice woman to… well, I don’t use language like that so I won’t repeat it.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson, you ran a drug cartel—well, you typed for it, or so you claim—but you object to a little adult language?”  
  
“Young man—she was a nun!”  
  



	17. Chapter 17

What time was it? It didn’t matter. He dragged on a dressing gown and stumbled into the bathroom and then into the kitchen. Why was he in the kitchen? Was there coffee? There didn’t appear to be any.  
  
There didn’t appear to be much of anything, for that matter, he discovered when he opened the fridge. He frowned. John had gotten behind on the shopping, apparently. Not like him. He poked into a few cupboards. No, not much of anything.  
  
He shrugged. He wasn’t hungry anyway.  
  
He wandered into the sitting room and stopped short, baffled. His eyes swept the room, his frown deepening. Something was not right. Things were moved around. That in itself was not unusual. Between John and Mrs Hudson (and the occasional drugs bust) things were always being moved; tidied. Discarded. No, that wasn’t the issue.  
  
There was… less.  
  
There were empty spaces on the bookshelves. The desk wasn’t heaped nearly as high as usual.  
  
There was only one laptop on it. He checked it. No myriad of unused shortcuts. No irritating desktop image of the two of them, him wearing “The Hat.”  
  
Not John’s.  
  
Growing alarmed now, he frantically scanned the cluttered rooms.  
  
There wasn’t a pair of John’s practical shoes by the door.  
  
There wasn’t a single medical journal on the floor by his chair.  
  
He peered behind it, his stomach dropping. No medical kit tucked there, within easy reach.  
  
He dashed into the kitchen, jerking open every single cupboard door, pushing aside mismatched cups and saucers; plates. Tins of soup and boxes of pasta.  
  
And all the way in the back, clearly unused for ages (the bits of spider at the bottom crumbled to dust when he turned it over)—was John’s favourite mug.  
  
*  
  
He pressed his hand to his chest, attempting to quell the pain that stabbed him. He tried to take a deep breath, but it caught there. He leaned against the door frame, his legs useless.  
  
He had lunged out of the kitchen and straight up the stairs and into John’s room, but the changes there had stopped him short at the threshold.  
  
Boxes. Dust. No photos on the walls. The cupboard was empty, with a few abandoned hangers on the rod.  
  
His legs finally gave out completely and he slid to the floor, his mouth open in shock.  
  
John was gone.  
  
*  
  
What time was it? The shadows had lengthened and deepened. He got up stiffly and nearly fell down the stairs.  
  
*  
  
He fumbled with his mobile. For some odd reason, it looked unfamiliar. He figured it out quickly enough, of course, but couldn’t for the life of him recall getting it. He flicked rapidly through his contacts. Yes, he had clearly entered them himself.  
  
Why couldn’t he find John in the list?  
  
What had he put him under?  
  
He knew that he was panicking, and panic was not conducive to methodically scrolling through his contacts. He tried to calm himself with a deep breath.  
  
He curled up in his chair, cradling the mobile in shaking hands. There! It wasn’t the contact he was seeking, but it was familiar and safe and it was someone who could help fix things—could help him find things when they were lost. To help find him when he was lost.  
  
He hit the call button with a trembling finger.  
  
*  
  
“Are you all right?” Greg moved rapidly, turning on lamps. Sherlock was ensconced in his chair, his long legs tucked up, his arms around them. He looked dazedly up at the older man, his eyes unfocused.  
  
And then Greg watched the change.  
  
The eyes sharpened. The posture straightened. He planted his feet on the floor and raked his fingers through his messy curls and glared at the intruder. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled.  
  
“You phoned. You sounded…” Greg paused, fumbling for the right words. “… a bit confused.” He grimaced; that was the understatement of the century.  
  
“I have no idea to what you are referring, Detective Inspector.”  
  
“You’re denying that you phoned me?” He moved to sit in John’s chair and Sherlock nearly growled at him.  
  
“I am.”  
  
“Then show me your mobile. Let me see your call history.”  
  
“I don’t know where it is.” Sherlock shrugged in a ridiculous parody of nonchalance.  
  
Greg glanced down. “It’s next to your foot,” he informed him tightly.  
  
Despite himself, Sherlock glanced down. “I hardly see the point,” he responded after a slight pause.  
  
“All right. Fine. I’m here now. Are you all right?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Haughty; insulted.  
  
“Oh, God. Come off it, Sherlock. You did phone me, and you said that John had gone missing.”  
  
“John…” Greg watched as Sherlock’s eyes flicked around, gathering information. He turned and looked keenly at the bookshelves. He rose and peered into the kitchen. He went out into the hallway and looked up the stairs; put one hand on the banister and stood still, pondering.  
  
“He’s not here,” Greg said gently.  
  
Sherlock spun around abruptly and came back into the sitting room. “What are you talking about? Where is he?”  
  
“Sherlock… he hasn’t lived here in over two years.”   
  
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Sherlock retorted furiously. “We haven’t even been living here for that long.”  
  
“Wha…” Greg shut his mouth with an audible click. He considered the thin man in front of him. He looked at him carefully. Sherlock was clearly not lying for dramatic effect. He was dead serious. Somehow he had lost the past… how many years? After they moved in; but, as he had been indicating that John’s room was upstairs, not yet a couple. That was at least three years, if not more.  
  
He was no expert on these things, but he suspected that confronting Sherlock with this information—challenging whatever timeframe he thought he was in—was not a good idea. His mind raced as he attempted to respond in a reasonable way to Sherlock’s misapprehension. Oh!  
  
“You had a fight,” he finally spit out. “You really pissed him off this time. He moved out. Don’t you remember?”  
  
Sherlock glared at him. No, he did not remember that. However, it was something that John had threatened to do many, many times. It did certainly sound plausible. Why had he deleted it, though? And how long had he been gone? The dust; the boxes stored in his room—they indicated a span of at least a few months. What had happened to those months? But not two years. Surely not. He was—he hated to admit—horribly confused.  
  
Best not to let Lestrade know. He would probably have him tested for using.  
  
Had he been using? Was that why all that time was a blank? He automatically rubbed the crook of his left elbow with his hand. Lestrade’s eyes flicked to it. He had noticed. Damn. His eyes opened wide in surprise at the DI’s next words.  
  
“Hey… it’s okay. Do you want to phone him? Phone John. Maybe it’s time you just apologise, yeah?”  
  
“Why do you think I have something to apologise for?” He frowned. Bit presumptuous, wasn’t that?  
  
“When _don’t_ you have something to apologise for?” Lestrade replied wryly.  
  
All right. He did have a point. He reached for his mobile.  
  
Oh, wait. He vaguely remembered looking for John’s number in his contacts. It hadn’t been there. Why hadn’t it been there? Had he deleted it—not from his Mind Palace but literally? They must have had quite the argument this time.  
  
Had he really deleted his number? He only deleted things that were of no use to him. He had never deleted a single thing about John. Never. Not his favourite tea or how he hated being cold or how he appreciated it when he rubbed lotion on his scars or how that spot behind the back of his ear tasted… Not one minute of their time together. Wait. Why had their time together included the taste of the skin behind his ear? That seemed a bit… intimate. They weren’t a couple. John stated that on an almost daily basis.  
  
“Hey, Sherlock.” The older man standing in front of him laid a gentle hand on his arm, disrupting his chain of thought. He had been staring at Sherlock, lost in thought, for several minutes, and it was getting scary.  
  
Sherlock’s reaction was even scarier.  
  
“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he bellowed. He jerked himself back; away from the comforting hand, absolute terror on his face.  
  
Greg immediately raised both hands in surrender. “I’m not touching you, Sherlock,”  
  
He spun and lunged down the hallway and into the bedroom, slamming the door behind himself. Greg cursed and ran after him. _Thank God I took the bolt off,_ he thought to himself. The knob itself didn’t lock properly any more. John had picked it a few too many times. He gently turned it and swung open the door. The younger man was sitting on the far side of the bed, his back to the door and his arms wrapped around his knees.  
  
Greg sat next to him.  
  
“Get away from me!” he shrieked. “Go away go away get out go away!” The panic in his voice made Greg’s heart begin to pound in his chest. He pushed at Greg, hard, and nearly shoved him off the bed. The younger man’s breathing was so ragged Greg was worried that he’d pass out. What the hell could he do to help?  
  
“Calm down,” he said firmly. “I won’t touch you, but I need you to calm down. Can you do that?”   
  
Sherlock stared at him in utter confusion; as if he couldn’t even understand what the DI was saying.  
  
Something told Greg to keep talking; keep the tone of his voice even and calm and somewhat firm but not intimidating. He remembered John speaking to him like that during a rather deplorable “I’m fine—I’m not using” episode that had him babbling about spiders on the ceiling that were spies.  
  
What the hell should he talk about, though? Not the past two years. Not John. Not… ah. Yes.  
  
“I’ve got this new case—well, it’s actually a cold case, but some new evidence has turned up. Someone’s great aunt something-or-other kicked off, and they were going through her things, right? And there, in a drawer with her knickers and whatnot, was this birth certificate. Seems she had had a baby when she was a young woman, and nobody had a clue. So the family starts digging around…”  
  
He related a fairly ridiculous pastiche of—and he really was never sure where it had all come from—a few Miss Marple and other murder mysteries he had seen dramatized. He knew that it didn’t really matter as long as he sounded engaged and kept talking.  
  
He kept it up for half an hour. He was beginning to run out of plot lines when he noticed a subtle change in Sherlock’s body language. He was beginning to… soften a bit.  
  
He was exhausted.  
  
Oh, thank God.  
  
“Hey, you feel all right?”  
  
“Head hurts,” the younger man admitted.  
  
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” he suggested.  
  
“John…” he murmured.  
  
“Yeah. Okay. You have a bit of a lie-down and when you’re up to it, we’ll give John a call, all right?”  
  
“And then he’ll come home?”  
  
Greg closed his eyes for a second. He rose and gently helped the dark-haired man lie down. “Yeah,” he replied quietly. “You have a nice sleep, and then John will come home.”  
  
*  
  
“John, you’ve got to get over here. I have no idea if what I’m doing is making things better or worse. He’s a fucking mess. It’s like he lost the last three years, at least. He’s really confused and he wants to know why you’re not here. I’ve got him lying down right now, but… God, John. Please. Give me a call. He really, really needs you here.”  
  
He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach; he had no air left. He ended the call and collapsed into John’s chair by the fireplace, his head in his hand.  
  



	18. Chapter 18

A dim recollection  
  
A disgusting hotel room  
  
A piece of paper  
  
  
  
John’s mobile number  
  
  
  
over  
  
  
  
and   
  
  
  
over  
  
  
  
and  
  
  
  
over  
  
  
  
  
  
until the pen ran dry


	19. Chapter 19

“Another message from that… what is he?” Mary noted sharply.  
  
“Detective Inspector,” John supplied tiredly.  
  
“What does he want?” she demanded.  
  
“He wants me to go see Sherlock.”  
  
 _Play this right, Mary. Easy does it._ “Do you want to go see him?” she asked gently, laying a hand on his arm.  
  
“I don’t know,” he replied flatly, his forehead furrowed.  
  
“Maybe we should try again. I’ll go with you again—but I’ll stay downstairs this time. Would that be easier?” She gave him a gentle and encouraging smile.  
  
“I said I don’t know!” he shot back tersely. He jerked his arm out from under her hand and rose from the kitchen table abruptly. “I’m going to have a shower. I need to think.”  
  
*  
  
 _It’s going to be much harder than I realised,_ she nearly texted. Her finger hovered over her Send button. No, that wouldn’t do. She deleted the message and started over.  
  
 _He’s being really difficult. Won’t go see him._ Hit Send.  
  
 _Then go on your own, stupid bitch._  
  
She stared at the immediate response. She felt the tiniest bit of fear, but that was immediately squelched by fury. How dare he? He had _no_ idea how complicated things in the field were--deep in it, the way she was now. It had been bad enough when she was observing John Watson from a distance; keeping him under covert surveillance while he battled through depression and confinement and slowly rebuilding his life. And now she had wedged herself firmly into that life. Working with him. Dating him. Enticing him. Inviting him in—  
  
Inviting him into _her._  
  
God.  
  
 _Or shall I send someone else?_  
  
Bastard! He had no idea how hard it was being in the field because he stayed as far away from real life as possible. He hid from it; only ever texting, texting, texting—warm and safe wherever he was. And now he dared suggest sending—that massive dickhead Moran? Did he expect them to work together? To play nicely?  
  
Sod that.  
  
Then a thought occurred to her. What if he didn’t intend for them to work together? What if he intended to… replace her? It was a distinct possibility. He could be like that—unpredictable.  
  
There was very little that frightened Mary Morstan, but the unpredictability— _that_ frightened her.  
  
*  
  
John leaned against the wall, his head down, and let the hot water run over him. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Why was his life so complicated and bizarre? Why wasn’t he just an ordinary doctor in an ordinary surgery; living in the suburbs with a wife and children? Friday nights out at the pub with his mates? Saturdays mowing the lawn…  
  
 _That sounds really boring._  
  
He wasn’t sure if the voice in his head was his own—  
  
Or Sherlock’s.  
  



	20. Chapter 20

“What’s wrong?” Greg’s stomach had dropped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice; he had woken up shouting something in French and the DI had run down the hallway to find the younger man sitting up in bed, staring at and shouting about something that wasn’t there.  
  
“C’est sombre.” He looked confused and shook his head as if to clear it. “It’s… dark,” he finally struggled to state in English.  
  
Greg could feel his heart pounding. The tone of Sherlock’s voice was sending alarms ringing through his head. “Okay. We can turn on a light. There. Better?” Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “What wrong?”  
  
Sherlock looked at the older man, and Greg didn’t think he had ever seen his eyes look like that—and he never wanted to see them look that way again. Sherlock took a ragged breath and frowned as he struggled to speak. He seemed to be searching within himself for the correct words. “Where…” He had to pause and gather his thoughts again. Greg waited. Finally, he was able to get it out. “Where’s Daddy?”  
  
Oh, God. That’s what he thought was happening. Okay, he would have to engage him at whatever level he was on at that moment. He could do that. He took a deep breath. “Oh, sweetheart. Daddy’s not here right now. Can you manage with Uncle Greg?”  
  
“When… want Daddy!” Sherlock rocked in misery. “Head hurts,” he added in a whimper.  
  
“Okay. How about I phone him, and you can talk to him, all right?” He began to head out the door; his mobile was in the sitting room.  
  
“No no no no leave me ‘lone!” Sherlock lunged and grabbed at Greg, catching his belt with his fingertips.  
  
“I’m just going to get my mobile. I’m not going far,” he attempted to assure him.  
  
“No nuh… no they’ll come in!” He sounded panicked; terrified.  
  
Greg sat on the bed and Sherlock launched himself into his arms. The older man held him tightly and stroked his back. “Who’s going to come in?” he asked gently. He could feel Sherlock quite literally shaking with fear.  
  
“The bad men,” Sherlock whispered, his face buried in Greg’s shoulder. “Bad men came and they hit me and hurt my head and it was dark and cold and I was lost and my bee was lost.”  
  
His bee! Greg glanced around, but he didn’t see it. Shit. “Not here,” he attempted to explain. “The bad men weren’t here in the flat.”  
  
“But they might… they might come in and find me and hurt me!” His voice was tight with panic.  
  
“Calm down,” Greg said firmly. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“Sherlock, you couldn’t possibly believe that I would let the bad men anywhere near you, right?”  
  
There was silence as Sherlock considered this, gasping unevenly for breath. Finally, Greg perceived the tiniest of nods.  
  
“Okay. So I am going to get my mobile, and we are going to phone Daddy, and then everything is going to be all right. Okay?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and released his hold on Greg’s neck, crumbling onto the mattress. Greg rose and looked around. Ah! There it was—just the tiniest bit of yellow and black peeking out from under the bed. He stooped and fished the stuffed bee out. “Here’s your bee. I promise—I will be right back.”  
  
Sherlock clutched the stuffed toy desperately to his chest and nodded doubtfully.  
  
“Tell you what. Can you count to one hundred?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then you count and when you’re done, I’ll be back. All right?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and began to count aloud, slowly. Greg stepped out in the hallway, running his hand desperately through his hair as he practically ran to retrieve his mobile. He realised that he was shaking. He squared his shoulders and headed back down the hallway; the sound of Sherlock’s deep voice carefully counting—  
  
“Vijfentwintig, twenty-six, twenty… eight? Vingt… non… seven? Um. dreißig…”  
  
He had to stop.  
  
He leaned heavily on the kitchen table, his eyes tightly shut. _God, Sherlock. You’re breaking my heart,_ he thought to himself. _Please come back. Please be all right._  
  



	21. Chapter 21

John frowned at his mobile. He glanced at the text. It was from Greg.  
  
 _Emergency please answer_  
  
He nearly dropped it when it rang.  
  
He stared at the display. It was Greg phoning him. He wanted to ignore it, like he had ignored all the other calls. Well, not _responded_ to the calls, because of course he had listened to every message, sometimes two or even three times, absorbing the nuances of the DI’s voice; the anguish and frustration.  
  
The text though… why had Greg texted him immediately before phoning? There must be something really wrong this time.  
  
He answered.  
  
“Yeah?” he mumbled.  
  
His heart nearly stopped at the sound of the familiar voice.  
  
“Daddy?”  
  
*  
  
Oh, God. That’s why Greg had texted first—to make sure he responded when Sherlock phoned. Little Sherlock. He could picture him sitting cross-legged, the mobile pressed against his ear tightly, an eager, delighted expression on his face. Two years ago, it had been Uncle Greg receiving the enthusiastic calls to tell him about the latest toy, or film, or to invite him to dinner, John watching affectionately as Little ‘Lock beamed and rattled off whatever it was that couldn’t wait.  
  
He calmed himself, making his voice as even and calm as he could. “Hey, sweetheart,” he managed to get out. “What are you up to?”  
  
“Uncle Greg is here but you’re not and I want you here and he found my bee and I like my duvet and it was dark and my head hurts and I want chips.”  
  
“Oh. Well then.” He had to stop talking for a second; the tremor in his voice was too noticeable.  
  
“Where are you?” Sherlock demanded. “I want you here.”  
  
“I’m… visiting a friend.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Her name’s Mary.”  
  
“She’s stupid. Come home.”  
  
“Sherlock, that’s not very polite.” God, it was amazing how automatic it was, sliding into “Daddy” mode. “Is Uncle Greg with you now?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
“Can I speak to him, please?”  
  
“No.”   
  
John couldn’t help it. The smallest of smiles graced his lips at the petulant tone. “Sherlock, you behave yourself. Give Uncle Greg his phone.”  
  
“’kay,” he huffed. There was a pause.  
  
“John.”  
  
The older man’s voice sounded very much like John realised he sounded—tense and upset and trying desperately not to let on.  
  
“Greg, what’s going on?”  
  
“Sherlock wants you to come home. He’s worried that the bad men are going to come into the flat and hurt him.”  
  
John realised that because Sherlock could hear him, Greg couldn’t be as forthright as he needed him to be. “Can you go into another room?” he requested.  
  
“I’ll… Sherlock, I have to talk to Daddy about some grown-up things. Can you wait in here for a few minutes?”  
  
Sherlock apparently conceded, as there was a pause and then Greg’s voice again. “Okay. I’m in the sitting room,” he said quietly.  
  
“Watch he doesn’t follow you,” the doctor reminded him.  
  
“Yeah. I’ve got my eye on the door. Listen, John—you’ve got to get over here. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he’s really Little—I mean, like he really thinks he’s a little boy and he’s terrified about some men coming to hurt him.”  
  
“Do you know if anything specific triggered it?”  
  
“Not sure. When I got here before—he had phoned me claiming that you had disappeared. It was like he lost… like it was back when you were still in the upstairs bedroom. I got him to lie down for a bit, and then he woke up like that—wanting Daddy.”  
  
“Anything else—physical symptoms?”  
  
“He’s said more than once that his head hurts.”  
  
“He’s been having a lot of headaches,” John reflected.  
  
“And those dizzy spells,” Greg remembered. “He had that head injury when he got back—do you think that has anything to do with it?”  
  
“Possibly. Partially, at least. Maybe Mycroft’s team missed something. Listen. There’s a medical file somewhere, probably on the desk. Can you find it; maybe take a look? See if they did an MRI or CT scan or anything?”  
  
“Uhhh…” there was a pause. “Yeah. Yeah. Here it is.” There was another pause as the DI leafed through the medical reports. “I don’t see… no. I don’t see anything like that, John.” He sounded frustrated.  
  
“What? You’re joking. With his head bashed like that, they didn’t do any scans?”  
  
“Apparently not.”  
  
“Christ. Well, okay. Yeah. I think that’s what’s up with him. He got one hell of a clot to the head that we know about, and who knows how many others before that.”  
  
“You saying he’s got brain damage?” The DI sounded panicked.  
  
“Yeah… no. Not… like you’re thinking. A minor brain injury is a bit more accurate. And it would explain a lot. He needs to see a neurologist—”  
  
“Who the _fuck_ are you?”  
  
“Greg?” John, startled by the interjection, scowled as he strained to hear what was going on. He could hear Greg speaking to someone. He couldn’t make out the words, but from the tone, it was obvious that it was not a welcome visitor.  
  
Finally, he heard the familiar voice again. “John… Mycroft’s here. He wants to talk to you.”  
  
“Oh, fuck. Yeah, all right.”  
  
“Doctor Watson?” Deliberately calm. Deliberately supercilious.  
  
“Yeah. What?”  
  
“I believe that my little brother is in need of medical attention.”  
  
“Definitely. Get him to a neurologist. He needs an MRI and a CT scan. Find out if he’s had other symptoms—other than the lost time and headaches. He’s been having dizzy spells. Any nausea? We all know what his mood’s been like.”  
  
Mycroft didn’t reply, but there were faint sounds and multiple voices. John scowled, listening intently. God, he wished he was there.  
  
“All right,” he finally heard the elder Holmes brother say, and then Sherlock’s deep voice was in his ear.  
  
“Daddy? Big Brother’s here and he wants to take me to… um… doctors want to look at my brain to see why my head hurts.”  
  
“Yes, that’s a very good idea, my love,” he told him firmly. “You go with Big Brother and you behave yourself. The doctors are going to take a look at your brain so they can fix your headaches, all right?”  
  
“Will you be there?”  
  
Would he? God, he wanted to be. But was that a good idea? Sherlock was already confused enough. Would John’s presence make it worse? “Not right now, my love,” he said as soothingly as he could. “Uncle Greg can go with you—you ask him, all right?”  
  
“Uncle Greg, you come with me,” Sherlock immediately commanded.  
  
There were voices in the background again, and Sherlock whimpered. “What’s the matter, my sweet boy?” John asked gently.  
  
“Big Brother and Uncle Greg are shouting,” he reported sadly.  
  
“Oh, dear. Well, don’t worry. It’ll all get sorted out soon.”  
  
“Daddy… please please please come home!” John’s stomach flipped as Sherlock began to cry.  
  
“Sherlock, don’t…”  
  
“John?”  
  
Oh, thank God. A voice of reason. “Greg, what’s going on? Are you going to stay with him?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. I don’t really give a rat’s arse what his brother says. He’s terrified. I’m not leaving his side.”  
  
“But he is taking him to hospital?”  
  
“Yes. Definitely. Sherlock, stop. Calm down. I’m going with you. John, we’re going to head out. I’ll let you know exactly what’s going on, all right?”  
  
“Yeah… yeah. Greg. Thank you.”  
  
He ended the call and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. He dropped his mobile to the table and let his head fall into his hands, pressing on his closed eyes with the heels of his hands.  
  
He was extremely grateful that Mary wasn’t home.  
  



	22. Chapter 22

“So, yeah, he’s being held for a few days for observation and strict bedrest.” Greg opened a beer with his free hand.  
  
“That’s going to go over well.” John, despite the circumstances, snickered a bit.  
  
“I suspect the staff of the entire ward’s going to be getting flowers—chocolates—possibly new cars,” the older man agreed. “The doctors say you were right—the bugger was hiding a lot of his symptoms.”  
  
“Not surprising. Are they suggesting inpatient rehab?”  
  
“They’re suggesting. He’s not accepting.”  
  
“Ah. So they want to try outpatient?”  
  
“’Try,’ yeah. You know that unless someone drags him there physically, he’s not going to go to a single appointment.”  
  
“I’m sure Mycroft has some muscle that would be happy to lend a hand.”  
  
“He’s still asking for you.”  
  
There was a moment of silence. “I don’t know what to do about that,” John finally admitted. “I don’t know if that’d make things better or worse.”  
  
“No clue,” the DI agreed heavily. “He’s still all over the place—thinks it’s three years ago; thinks he’s a little kid; then he’s fine—I mean, he’s oriented in time, but then he’s going on in French and sometimes he’s got an American accent…”  
  
“Do they have him restrained?”  
  
“He keeps getting out.”  
  
“Shit. Greg, I don’t know what to do. I want to see him…” and suddenly his throat was tight and his breath was short and he couldn’t go on.  
  
“It’s all right,” the older man sighed. “No one knows what’s going to help him or what’s going to make him worse. It’s not like there’s a script.”  
  
“No… hardly,” John was finally able to say.  
  
“I’ll visit him every day, and so will Mrs Hudson. We’ll stay in touch, all right?”  
  
“Yeah. Thank you.”  
  
*  
  
They kept him in bed for over a week, and as they had predicted, it had not been a pleasant time for anyone.  
  



	23. Chapter 23

John easily avoided being hit by the books; Sherlock’s aim was horribly off. John wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much.  
  
Then there was shouting. Oh, big surprise, that. Sherlock telling him to Shut Up and Get Out and Leave Me Alone.  
  
“No, I don’t think so,” John had responded calmly. He was becoming seriously concerned. Despite his ire, Sherlock had been growing steadily paler. Finally, he couldn’t hold his tongue. “Hey. You don’t look well. Sit down,” he suggested, indicating Sherlock’s chair. Astoundingly, he obeyed, although John would be hard pressed to say if he was actually doing what the doctor had suggested or had simply not been able to stand any longer. Throwing that many books could take it out of a person.  
  
*  
  
It had been a peaceful week, truth be told. Knowing that Sherlock was relatively safe—or at least that he was someone else’s responsibility for a bit—had been a huge relief. He had relished every bit of normalcy—regular hours; boring patients. Dinner every night that didn’t involve avoiding certain food items; cutting food up. He and Mary went to see a film. He had not even minded the evening that Mary had gone out to visit a friend. He had spent the time mending a few things around the place—a loose towel rod; a lopsided kitchen cupboard door.  
  
*  
  
Of course security had been increased; Mary had been prepared for that. She had taken extra precautions to blend in with the regular staff, and had to work to keep her breathing even when she finally crept into his private room.  
  
He was restrained; she knew that—but it was somehow still so thrilling to see him lying in the bed, weak and helpless. He was turned away from the door. He was still, but she didn’t think that he was asleep.  
  
He lifted his head and turned it toward her. No, not asleep, but he was moving slowly. He looked at her blearily. Were they keeping him sedated? That seemed unlikely. He didn’t need anything additional clouding his thinking. She had done a great deal of research on brain injuries of his sort, and she fully intended to take advantage of his weakness; of his confusion.  
  
His eyes suddenly opened wide. “Mary? What are you—” She stopped dead in her tracks. “Get her OUT! SOMEONE GET HER OUT OF HERE! SHE’S GOING TO KILL ME!”  
  
Despite his weakness, Sherlock’s deep voice carried, and she only managed to slip away because of the confusion and crowd of medical and security personnel who had responded to his panic.  
  
That particular panic attack was only one of many that week, and no one thought to make any special mention of it to Lestrade, or to Mrs Hudson, or to Mycroft Holmes when he visited the next day, sitting stiffly in the visitor’s chair of his little brother’s private room and patiently reading to him.  
  
After he left, a nurse came in to check on him and noticed the book on the floor. She picked it up and he held out his hand impatiently for it. _The Dynamics of Combustion_? Seemed a bit of an odd choice for reading material, but then, what about Mr Holmes was not odd? She picked up several of his crayons, as well, but he glared at her when she offered them; he didn’t seem to want to play right then.  
  
*  
  
“He’s been home from hospital for three weeks. You’ve tried to contact him?” Mycroft Holmes asked unnecessarily.   
  
John was standing stiffly, as he usually did, in front of Mycroft’s desk. “You know I have—as soon as he got home,” he shot back. “And you probably know what happened.”  
  
“I have some idea, yes.”  
  
Had he heard correctly? Had he detected the slightest bit of—what was that? — _defeat_ in the man’s voice? “So you know that I tried to visit and he quite literally threw things at me?”  
  
“Mmm. Yes.”  
  
“Can’t you do anything about him?”  
  
“What do you suggest that I do, Doctor?” Mycroft Holmes’ voice sent shivers down his spine.  
  
“I suggest that you have a few of your ‘minions’ go to the flat, get him dressed, and get him to his rehab appointments.”  
  
“Isn’t that a bit… heavy-handed?” His voice was light with amusement, but there was an undertone to it that, if John didn’t know better, sounded more like aversion.  
  
Damn. He was a prick, but he was also always right. Sherlock had repeatedly expressed his belief that unknown “bad men” were trying to get into the flat to hurt him. The last thing he needed was any sort of home invasion or man-handling. “Okay. Yeah. I don’t know, then.”  
  
“Perhaps you can come up with—”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No? Whatever do you mean, Doctor Watson?”  
  
“I honestly don’t know what else I can do. He hasn’t wanted to see me or hear from me since he got back, and especially since he realised that I was responsible for him being hospitalised. So it’s up to you to figure out some way to get him to rehab once in a while, at least until he can work again.”  
  
“You know that Sherlock has never been particularly keen on my directing his activities,” the man stated primly.  
  
“Do you blame him?” John snarled. “It’s because of you he’s such a mess.”  
  
Mycroft had the decency to look uncomfortable for a second. Then he collected himself. “Perhaps we should go see him together,” he suggested.  
  
John considered this. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was desperate to see him again. He was still so confused and weak, and the last time he had attempted to get close to him had been wildly unsuccessful. He wanted to see him.  
  
He wanted to touch him.  
  
He wanted to take his pulse and look into his eyes and check his reflexes.  
  
He wanted to feed him something lovely and soft and not alarming, one bite at a time.  
  
He wanted to hold him.   
  
He wanted to rock him.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” he conceded. “When?”  
  
*  
  
John made a note of when Mycroft’s car would “fetch” him. Did people really say “fetch” anymore?  
  
“Pompous prick,” John offered to no one in particular as he headed back to work.  
  
*  
  
The car did indeed “fetch” him the next evening. He was ready and waiting for it; he had brought a clean shirt to the surgery so he could go directly from work. Mary had made an odd face when she noted the shirt, and he had shrugged and curtly explained his plans. He had let Mrs Hudson know what their plans were as well. She sounded exhausted and relieved and he felt horribly guilty; the tension in 221 must be awful. So now they ascended the steps and without knocking entered the first-floor flat.  
  
Sherlock scowled at them; he was at the window and clearly had observed them entering the building. He was dressed in a buttoned shirt and suit; he even had on socks and shoes. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “I’m going to have Mrs Hudson change the locks.”  
  
John stood behind his chair and Mycroft stood stiffly in front of the fireplace. “Sherlock, come sit down,” he requested, surprisingly politely.  
  
“Why should I?” Did Sherlock observe teenagers to capture just the right tone?  
  
“Because the doctor and I both wish to speak to you,” the older man explained patiently.  
  
“I don’t wish to speak to you,” was the obnoxious response.  
  
John had had enough. “Sherlock, sit down NOW!”  
  
Sherlock sat. Oh, good. Commanding him still worked.   
  
Mycroft plunged right in. “Sherlock, look at yourself.”  
  
“Why?” Oh, that frown.  
  
“Humour me. Look down. What do you see?”  
  
Sherlock glanced down. “I see… my clothing. Socks. Shoes.” He shrugged, an exaggerated motion of nonchalance.  
  
“Oh, come now, brother. That’s just seeing. I want you to _observe._ ” Mycroft leaned forward.  
  
With a roll of his eyes he looked down again.  
  
Paused.  
  
It was a long pause.  
  
“What do you expect me to say?” Sherlock finally demanded petulantly.  
  
“I expect you to tell me exactly what you observe about yourself,” Mycroft responded, sounding much more patient than he must have been feeling, surely, John thought. “Start with your clothes.”  
  
“Very well,” Sherlock sighed. “White shirt.”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“It’s…” he paused, looking down at himself carefully. “It’s not as crisp as I’d like.”  
  
“How does it fit?”  
  
“A bit loose,” he replied quickly, then pressed his lips tightly together as if annoyed that the words had escaped them.  
  
“Not the way you like them.”  
  
“No. I’ll have to have a word with the cleaner.”  
  
“Now. Your trousers.”  
  
“Black. A bit…”  
  
“More than a bit, Sherlock.”  
  
“All right. More than a bit large. Loose. Maybe I’ve lost a bit of weight?”  
  
“Once again, more than a bit.” Mycroft was leaning forward a bit now. “What else?”  
  
“Not the right socks.”  
  
“And your shoes?” his brother pressed. “Tell me about your shoes.”  
  
“Black. Expensive. John hates how expensive they are, and how thin. Always after me about how impractical they are.”  
  
“Surely that’s not the only thing you observe. Come, now, brother mine. You’re disappointing me.”  
  
Sherlock frowned at his brother but was unable to resist looking down again. His expression changed the slightest bit. John knew that look. That was Sherlock realising that he had missed something but not wanting to admit it. “Go on,” he encouraged, surprising himself by speaking.  
  
“The laces…” Approaching Lost-in-His-Head timbre.  
  
“What about the laces, Sherlock?” Mycroft prodded.  
  
“They’re… I didn’t…” He seemed unable to proceed. He shook his head.  
  
John looked for himself. Oh, God. The laces weren’t tied. Instead, the loose ends were tucked under the tongues.  
  
“Why didn’t you tie them?” Mycroft asked, surprisingly gently. He received no answer and didn’t seem to be expecting one as he observed his brother. “Would you like me to tie them for you?” he asked softly. John had a sudden image of a much younger Sherlock sitting on his bed, swinging his feet and pushing his curls out of his eyes as Mycroft, seven years older, knelt and patiently tied his little brother’s shoes.  
  
“Get OUT!” he roared, bursting up out of his chair. He grabbed at Mycroft by his lapels. “I want you to get out of my home NOW!” He suddenly spun him around and slammed him face-first into the fireplace—the older man’s sharp exhalation betrayed just how hard. He twisted his arm up painfully behind him. “I have had enough of this,” he snarled, his voice now low and rough. “I want you to leave me ALONE!”  
  
“Hey! Enough!” John darted from behind his chair. Sherlock dropped Mycroft’s arm and turned to face him. John stopped short and put his hands up in surrender. “I don’t want to fight you, Sherlock,” he offered, trying to keep his voice calm and level. “But you need to calm down.”  
  
“Why the hell should I ‘calm down’?” he challenged, his hands rolling tightly into fists.  
  
“Because we’re here to help you, you idiot.” John glanced at Mycroft, who upon being released had taken a moment before turning around to face them.  
  
“GET OUT!” The fury in his eyes was more than a little frightening.  
  
“Mycroft, I think we should leave. It’s too much.”  
  
There was a pause and John watched as a thousand thoughts flashed through the other man’s head. Finally, he capitulated. “Very well, Doctor.” He stood up very straight, fastidiously straightened his clothing, and without looking at either of them again, walked out of the flat.  
  
“Sherlock…” John started, “before I go, can I just—”  
  
“I said get out.” His jaw was clenched as he pointed emphatically towards the door. His hand shook.  
  
“God, Sherlock. Come on,” he implored. “I just want to check on you. Can’t you just let me?”  
  
The thin man stood stiffly in front of him. His hands were now clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing was harsh. His chin dropped to his chest as he mumbled, “Please go away, John. I don’t want you to see me like this.”  
  
John weighed his options. The man was obviously ill; malnourished and weak. Unsteady. Clearly at his absolute limit. He could easily overpower him. Force him to sit down so he could examine him. No, that was idiotic, he told himself. The last thing he needed was to be subjected to more physical force. Talk to him more? They had hardly been having a nice chat since they had arrived, so no, that didn’t seem likely. Damn. He really did not want to push him any further, mentally or physically. That was not his intent at all. He sighed deeply; more of a groan than a sigh, and ran his hand through his hair.  
  
“Yeah. Okay,” he offered quietly, “I’m going to go, but I do really want to see you again. Do you think that at some point we can talk?”  
  
He received no response, and after a minute, he spun on his heel and left the flat.  
  
*  
  
“Office, sir?”  
  
“No… take me home.”  
  
Mycroft Holmes was so completely anguished that he didn’t even catch the quizzical look his driver gave him as he pulled out into traffic.  
  
*  
  
Mrs Hudson wiped away a tear. She had had great hopes for their visit, but between the shouting and the rapid exits of both visitors, it was obvious that it had not gone as planned. She wanted to bring her boy some tea, but she sensed that she should wait a while.  
  
*  
  
John had been walking for hours. Instead of heading for the Tube station, upon reaching the street he had headed in the opposite direction. And he just walked, and walked, and walked, while the same thought ran through his head over, and over, and over.   
  
_All I wanted to do is hold him. It’s been so long. That’s all I wanted. To feel him in my arms; check on him. Make sure he’s safe._  
  
 _Make sure he’s real._  
  
He kept walking.  
  
*  
  
Mary dumped John’s uneaten dinner into the trash so viciously she nearly knocked over the kitchen bin.  
  
*  
  
Mycroft picked at his dinner, swirling marinara-sauce designs on his plate with his heavy fork. He was holding a book in his other hand, but he hadn’t turned a page in ages.  
  
“Very well, then,” he sighed, giving up on both the meal and the book. He withdrew his mobile from his pocket, his fingers moving rapidly as he searched.  
  
*   
  
“You could have at least phoned.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” John hung up his coat. He was exhausted and the garment felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.  
  
Mary got off the sofa and went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind herself.  
  
*  
  
It was finally quiet. The flat was finally quiet. Alone. He was finally alone. He opened his eyes and peered down at his shoes. His untied shoes. “Tie them for me,” he commented in disgust. “No, I don’t want Big Brother to tie my shoes for me.”  
  
He sank down to the floor and brushed his fingers listlessly across the polished leather. “Ridiculous, My. _You_ don’t tie shoes.”  
  
He picked at the loose end of a lace, pulling it out from under the shoe’s tongue. He considered it, running his fingertip across the hard end; noting the sharpness.  
  
He knew what that end was for. He knew that laces went through holes. And he knew that laces should be tied. Loops.  
  
It was something about loops.  
  
He released the lace in defeat.  
  
“Daddy ties shoes,” he whispered.  
  



	24. Chapter 24

“No. I’m sorry. He’s not taking any clients right now.”  
  
Mrs Hudson sighed as she shut and bolted the street door. She glanced up at the ceiling, wondering what he was up to. She couldn’t stand it. She crept up the stairs and eased open the door to the flat. “Sherlock?” she called out quietly. There was no response. She stepped in and glanced around. Not in the sitting room. Not in the kitchen.  
  
She tip-toed down the hallway and gently pushed open the bedroom door, which was partially closed. She expected to see him in bed, the bedclothes tangled around him. Instead, the bed was empty—completely empty. The bedclothes were all on the floor—the mattress was bare.  
  
“Sherlock?” she whispered.  
  
She paused and considered for a second. She knew that he hadn’t gone out. She had learned quite a few things from Mr Hudson that occasionally came in handy; how to fix door hinges so they acted as alarms was one of them. The street door now couldn’t be opened without half the street hearing it.  
  
Oh, of course! She walked quietly up to the second floor.  
  
Yes. There he was—amid the boxes and loose papers, curled up on the rumpled duvet of the bed John had rather happily abandoned when they had started… well. He was sound asleep, one of the pillows clutched tightly in his arms.  
  
*  
  
“What the hell is this?” he spluttered. He threw his cigarette viciously into the fireplace and glared at him.  
  
“You hadn’t gotten around to getting new clothes. I was tired of watching you risk indecent exposure every time you stood up. I estimated your measurements and had some things made up for you.” He indicated the numerous packages and garment bags that he had had placed on the sofa.  
  
His brother didn’t reply. He looked furious for a bit, but that seemed to wear him out and he finally looked down at the floor.  
  
“It’s all right,” Mycroft offered.  
  
“What’s all right?” He sounded exhausted.  
  
“That you can’t remember who your tailor is.”  
  
*  
  
“I have just about had it with you, young man,” Mrs Hudson snapped.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “About what?” he groaned, stretching. He had been curled up in his chair reading when his landlady had come upstairs with an offer of an outing for tea. He had snapped at her for the interruption—which was ridiculous because he had been bored out of his skull and should have welcomed it, but nothing was making him happy lately.  
  
“About you feeling sorry for yourself.”  
  
He scowled at her, struggling to sit upright. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, outraged.  
  
“Exactly what I said. Yes, you’ve been through a terrible time. I can’t even begin to imagine what you were up to while you were away…” He took a breath as if to make a smart retort, but she pre-emptively shushed him with a glare. “… and it hasn’t been exactly smooth sailing since you’ve been back, but you’re not doing a thing to help yourself. You sit and mope and complain. You turn your nose up at going to any rehab. You’re in no state for anyone to even consider hiring you, and you’re doing absolutely nothing to occupy yourself otherwise.”  
  
Ah ha. She had hit the nail on the head—instead of outraged, he was beginning to look stroppy, which probably meant that he was actually starting to feel a bit guilty. Now to drive it all the way in.  
  
“And you’ve been inexcusably rude to John.”  
  
That did it. He shoved himself out of the chair, his dressing gown swirling around him.  
  
“Me, rude? He’s the one who keeps coming in here uninvited. He’s intruding. He doesn’t live here anymore, as everyone is so fond of reminding me—he’s got on with his life. He’s got a job in a very boring surgery and a… girl… friend and lives with her in some awful place that’s probably decorated with… cats or something.”  
  
“And he’s still your best friend and he wants to see you; that’s why he keeps trying to visit. You’re just so thick-skulled you don’t know your salvation when it literally comes knocking at your door.”  
  
“I think it’s time that you left, Mrs Hudson,” he replied darkly.  
  
“Fine. But you better start to behave properly, or I’ll…”  
  
“Or you’ll what?” he snarled.  
  
“Or I’ll phone your mother!”  
  
And with that she stormed down the stairs, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room, scowling after her.  
  
*  
  
“Isn’t it about time you took down those maps?”  
  
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the papers that still covered the mirror over the fireplace. “No,” he said flatly.  
  
“Do you want Dad to…”  
  
“I said no!”  
  
Mrs Holmes clamped her mouth into a thin, tight line. She loved her boys, but they were the two stubbornest men she had ever encountered. “And I said they’re coming down. Dad…” She indicated the display with a wave of her hand and the elderly man obediently rose and, stepping past his son, began to patiently take the layers of maps with their mysterious markings down, one at a time.  
  
Their younger son watched him for a few seconds before he stormed down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door behind him.  
  
*  
  
 _RU alright? Mrs H said you burned yourself_  
  
 _A minor injury. No need for your interference. SH_  
  
 _I am a dr. What happened?_  
  
 _None of your business. SH_  
  
 _Mrs H said you were burning some papers. What were they?_  
  
No reply.  
  
*  
  
“Yeah, Greg, what’s up?” He was in the lobby of the cinema.  
  
*  
  
“No, no. It was a fine film.”  
  
“You missed half of it,” Mary commented a bit snappishly.  
  
“I had to take that call,” he explained.  
  
“It was about him, wasn’t it?” She was getting so very sick of the entire scenario.  
  
“It actually wasn’t, but so what if it was?” he shot back. He was getting a bit tired of Mary’s disapproval.  
  
“Never mind. I don’t want to argue. Let’s get some dessert.” She smiled disarmingly at him and he relented. Maybe he _had_ been too engrossed with Sherlock lately.  
  
“Yeah. Sounds good.”  
  
*  
  
“Gilly?”  
  
“Hey, Greg. What’s wrong?”  
  
“Does something have to be wrong for me to phone?”  
  
“Well… honestly, yes. I mean, there usually is.”  
  
Greg considered this. She was probably right. She usually was about things like that. “But there doesn’t have to be…” he attempted. “Look. Can we start over?”  
  
“Sure. Hi, Greg.”  
  
“Hey, Gilly.”  
  



	25. Chapter 25

“They found him _where_?” Was he hearing that correctly? Mary frowned as she caught his expression. “Say that again.” He listened. She watched him intently, her hand frozen over her dinner plate, fork in hand. “Is he still there?” Another pause, and then, “No. I’ll get a cab.”  
  
Mary finally put down her fork as he ended the call. “Let me guess,” she said tightly. “Sherlock? What now?”  
  
John sighed, tucking his mobile in his pocket. “I can’t quite believe this,” he admitted.  
  
Mary buried her anger, glancing down at her plate for a second. She looked up again. John looked positively wrung out. “What happened, my love?” she asked softly, reaching out across the table to take his hand.  
  
“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry,” he hastily added when he realised how that sounded.  
  
“Okay,” Mary replied, baffled.  
  
“But I’m going to go pick him up. I’m sorry about this.”  
  
“No. It’s all right. He’s really not at all well, is he?”  
  
“Not at all, no.”  
  
“Will you be home tonight?” She picked up her fork again.  
  
He rose tiredly. “I doubt it.”  
  
*  
  
“They found him in the park. The playground in Kensington Gardens—that one with the pirate ship?” John stared out at the streets, not really seeing anything, as the cabbie worked her way through the early evening traffic. “I’m on my way there now.”  
  
“What the fuck was he doing?” Greg demanded. He was just getting ready to leave his office, juggling his mobile and his coat.  
  
“Just… watching. Mycroft said he’s been sitting on a bench for a few hours, just watching the kids play.”  
  
“An adult male on his own just watching the children play... shit, John. I’m surprised he hasn’t been picked up yet.”  
  
“I suppose everyone thought he was there with someone—you know, like all the other parents.”  
  
“Do you need me?”  
  
“I don’t know. Not there yet. God, this traffic!” His sudden outburst, accompanied by a solid thump of a fist to the seat beside him, had the cabbie glancing in her rear view mirror. “Sorry,” he grimaced. “I think that maybe that wouldn’t be the best idea,” he continued. “It’s going to draw enough attention with just me and Mycroft there.”  
  
“True. Tell you what. I’m going to head home, but ring me if you need me anywhere else, right?”  
  
“Yeah. Right.”  
  
Oh, thank God. They were almost there.  
  
He threw some cash at the cabbie and opened the door before she was completely stopped. He wanted to run, but he knew that that, too, would attract unwanted attention, so he strode as quickly as he possibly could toward the playground.  
  
They were easy to spot: two tall men sitting on a bench outside of the play area. The taller one, clad in a pristine three-piece suit and holding an umbrella, was sitting bolt upright.  
  
The other man was hunched over, his feet on the bench seat and his arms wrapped around his legs. He had his head resting on his knees, his head turned toward the other occupant of the bench so John couldn’t see his face. Dark clothes—trainers? But—oh, thank God—that head of dark curls was unmistakable. It was him.  
  
“Hello, John,” Mycroft said quietly as he approached them.  
  
“Sherlock?” John said, ignoring the older brother for the moment.  
  
Sherlock’s head popped up in surprise and his face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Daddy!”  
  
John’s stomach felt like someone had just punched it, and he wanted to punch something back. Instead, he swallowed hard and crouched down in front of Sherlock. “Hello, my big boy,” he managed.  
  
Sherlock’s smile disappeared. “Am I in trouble?”  
  
John caught Mycroft nodding his head out of the corner of his eye. “Why…” he had to clear his throat. “Why do you think that you’re in trouble?”  
  
“’Cause you look… um—.” He stopped in frustration, apparently unable to retrieve the word he wanted.  
  
“Angry? Yes, I am, a bit,” John rose.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I was worried about you,” John offered, not at all untruthfully. “I didn’t know that you were here.”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
“And you came here all by yourself. You know that’s against The Rules.”  
  
“Oh…” his voice quivered.  
  
“Come on,” John replied, offering his hands. “Let’s let Big Brother take us home in his fancy car, all right?” Sherlock nodded, his eyes filling with tears as he let himself be pulled into a standing position. “Let’s get him out of here before he has a meltdown,” the doctor muttered unnecessarily to the elder Holmes. “Where’s your bloody car?”  
  
“Language,” Mycroft replied mildly, rising and leading the way. “Come along, Sherlock. You can have some of the juice I brought for you, all right?”  
  
John was grateful for the privacy screen that separated them from the driver; he was also relieved to see that ever-present Anthea was actually not present for once. “In you go,” John encouraged as he helped Sherlock slide in.  
  
“Do you wish to speak now, or would you rather he not listen?” Mycroft inquired as they all settled in.  
  
“I don’t think he’s going to notice one way or the other. Sherlock—seatbelt.”  
  
He suppressed a groan as Sherlock ignored him, huddling in the deep seat and sniffing, two tears rolling down his cheeks. He reached over and buckled him up as Mycroft handed him a juice pack. Both Mycroft and John sighed as Sherlock, tuning them out completely, began watching out the window.  
  
*  
  
John watched Mycroft’s face carefully as he told him about that night—so many years ago—when he had taken Sherlock to see the pirate ship in the Princess of Wales’ Memorial Garden, and had sat—possibly on the very same bench—and watched as his sweet boy played on it. For him to sit and watch children playing on it—Sherlock obviously remembered that night as well.  
  
“Playing on a pirate ship. I see,” the elder brother intoned. “Sherlock,” Mycroft said now, raising his voice a bit. “What were you doing in the park?”  
  
The evening’s shadows were deep now, and lights were on in the shops. Sherlock watched disconsolately. “I wanted to go on the ship, but there were lots of people on it already and it was too loud and too noisy and too…” He dropped his juice and covered his eyes with his hands.  
  
“I’m sorry, my sweet boy. I know how you liked that ship.” John patted his knee. What he really wanted to do was to wrap his arms around him and rock him.  
  
“So you just watched the… other children playing?” Mycroft prodded.  
  
“I was a good boy. I just sat on the bench and kept my hands to myself and I didn’t even say anything about that man taking… um… taking money from his job and he’s got a girlfriend (he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he said this) and he’s taking her to Bar… um… Barcelona but his mummy—I mean his um married um wife will be cross.”  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t say anything about that,” John affirmed. “Do you remember why we don’t tell people those things?”  
  
“’Cause i’s rude to ‘tack-deduce?”  
  
“Yes, it’s rude to attack-deduce.”  
  
They rode in silence for a minute. John noticed now that he wearing his Th-In-K black t-shirt, black jeans, and black hoodie, socks with stripes, and trainers. He looked ten years younger than his actual age. That was not helping.  
  
“I see you dressed yourself this morning,” John commented to him. Sherlock nodded. “Surprised that didn’t sound any alarms,” he commented to Mycroft. “Haven’t you been watching him?”  
  
“Yes, of course we’ve been watching. Apparently whoever was on that task this morning didn’t think anything was amiss when he left the flat dressed like that, so no alarm was raised.”  
  
“No; actually that’s understandable. He does go undercover. That’s where that stuff’s from, originally.”  
  
“What’s that printed on your shirt, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.  
  
“Thorium-indium-potassium,” Sherlock responded indifferently.  
  
“Interesting.”  
  
John nodded, anticipating the next comment. “Yeah, he does that. No matter how Little he gets, he doesn’t ever really lose anything—knowledge-wise, I mean. Sometimes he doesn’t want to read or use three-syllable words when one will do, but you ask him anything about chemistry or music and he’s spot on.”  
  
“But when he’s Little, isn’t he usually just… pretending?”  
  
“Not really. Yes and no. I can’t explain it. He can’t even explain it. He tried once.”  
  
“But this is different,” the older Holmes brother pointed out.  
  
“Very. He’s never deliberately gone out of the flat like that—not even with me. We’ve had a few times when he dropped down whilst we were out—when he was really tired—but nothing like this. Fuck.”  
  
“It will be a challenge keeping it out of the media,” Mycroft sighed.  
  
Oh, Christ. What if someone had noticed… shit. And wouldn’t the headlines be lovely the next morning?  
  
“But you can, can’t you?” the doctor responded sharply. Media attention of that sort was the very last thing any of them needed.   
  
“Yes, of course.” He retrieved his mobile from his jacket pocket and made a call. While he was engaged, John turned his attention back to Sherlock.  
  
“What’s going on out there?” he asked, indicating the streets through which the black car purred.  
  
“Umm… those two kids skipped class today.”  
  
“That was naughty, yeah?” Sherlock nodded in agreement. “What else?”  
  
“That restaurant has bugs.”  
  
“So we won’t go there to eat, right?”  
  
“I like bugs,” Sherlock pointed out. “’Specially maggots.”  
  
“Of course you do,” Despite the gravity of their situation, it was hard not to laugh.  
  
“That man just bought a ring for his… um… girlfriend but he didn’t spend enough money on it and he thinks she won’t like it much.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“He’s got his hand in his pocket—see? He’s holding onto something small so he won’t lose it. But he keeps looking at that big shop—the ju-el-er-ry one—and he looks sad.”  
  
“Ah. Good job, mate,” John sighed, patting his knee. The last thing he needed to think about was buying a girlfriend a ring.  
  
*  
  
Home at last. Sherlock had bounded out of the car as soon as it had pulled to the curb and was now bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting for Daddy to unlock the door.  
  
“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Mycroft stated.  
  
“All right. Yeah. Sherlock, wait a second!”  
  
*  
  
The flat looked like a nursery school had exploded. Pretty much every single toy and book Sherlock had was strewn across the floor. His bee and his pirate bear were sitting together on John’s chair, a book open in front of them.  
  
“You’ve been busy,” he commented wryly. “What are they reading?”  
  
“’bout pirates.”  
  
John nearly tripped over the box that was meant for blocks. “Hey, how about we tidy up a bit?”  
  
Sherlock pouted. “You do it,” he commanded.  
  
“No. You took everything out, so you will help me put everything away. If you do a good job, we can get fish and chips, all right?”  
  
“’kay,” he huffed in reply. He stalked over and grabbed the empty box, then turned abruptly and began to gather up the blocks.  
  
John perched himself on the desk to watch, his eyes roaming around the place. It was a disaster. Crayons and paper and puzzle pieces and blocks were in a jumble in front of the fireplace. Books, open and flipped face down so the pages were crumbled, filled Sherlock’s chair. His Mozart musical ball (his cherished gift from Uncle Greg so long ago) was on the sofa, but the cushions weren’t.  
  
The clothing he could understand, but how could Mycroft’s team have missed _this_? John wondered. Someone was losing his or her position—that was certain.  
  
And then the realisation hit him with a sudden pang. God, he thought. How long had he been Little and on his own? Had he been eating? What if he had started messing around with the chemicals? What if he had tried to take a bath by himself and slipped? John pushed himself off the desk.  
  
“Keep it up. I’ll be right back,” he shot over his shoulder.  
  
The kitchen was untidy, but there were no signs of food or chemicals anywhere. There was a training cup on the floor; John picked it up and examined it. Sticky remnants of juice coated the inside. He put it in the sink and headed to the bathroom.  
  
Oh, good. No signs of the bath toys having been disturbed. No towels or anything else on the floor.  
  
The bedroom was a mess, though. All of the bedding was on the floor. Most of the drawers had been pulled out, their contents strewn everywhere. The bedside lamps were on. And in the middle of everything were Sherlock’s discarded trousers and buttoned shirt, thin dress socks and pants on top of the pile.  
  
*  
  
“Daddy!”  
  
Daddy hurried back to the sitting room. He had probably been making the bed. That was good. He had wanted to sleep and someone had put all the blankets on the floor. “What’s the matter?” he asked in his serious voice—his worried voice.  
  
“Fix it!” Sherlock held one of his books up for inspection. One page was torn almost in two. It was _Jungle Book_ and even if Shere Khan scared him it was one of his favourites.  
  
“All right. We can fix this,” Daddy assured him. “Do you want to help?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and followed his Daddy to the desk. Daddy rummaged and pulled something out of a drawer. “Here,” he said in his nice, kind Daddy voice. “You hold it together and I’ll tape it, all right?”  
  
“Yes, Daddy. Thank you.”  
  
*  
  
“You’ve done a nice job tidying out here,” John commented as he plumped the Union Jack pillow and placed it affectionately on his chair.  
  
“I’m a big help,” Sherlock responded blithely.  
  
“Enormous,” was the somewhat wry reply.  
  
*  
  
“That’s enough chips. Have some of your fish. Yours, not mine!” Daddy made him laugh, pretending to look angry, but Sherlock was a very smart boy and he knew that he was just teasing. He chewed the fish and licked his fingers; they were tangy with vinegar and salt.  
  
*  
  
“I didn’t tell that lady ‘bout her neighbour’s dog digging up her flowers.”  
  
“What lady?”  
  
“I asked if he could play pirates with me.”  
  
“What did you do?” John felt his mouth go dry.  
  
“There was a boy at the ship. He was smart like me. I wanted to play with him but I rem’bered… um… permish—per-mish-un.”  
  
“You spoke to his mummy?” John’s heart rate increased a bit. “You wanted him to get permission to play with you?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “’Cause I didn’t want him to be bad so I asked if he could play pirates with me but his mummy said he had to go to his piano lesson.”  
  
“You asked… sh… ah. Erm. Sherlock, you spoke to this boy in the park, and then you asked his mum if he could play pirates with you?”  
  
“Yes. But it’s okay,” Sherlock responded earnestly. “She wasn’t a stranger.”  
  
“What exactly do you mean, Sherlock?” John interjected slowly, realisation hitting him.  
  
“She wasn’t a stranger ‘cause she knows you and she knew my name. I want my crayons, Daddy.”  
  
“Oh, sure. Here.” John dropped the box of crayons on the coffee table, his mind racing. “Sherlock, you know that lots of people know your name, right? Because it’s on the news when you’re big.”  
  
“Uh huh,” he commented disinterestedly, pulling the brightly-coloured sticks out of their box and lining them up carefully in front of himself.  
  
“And lots of people know Daddy because he writes about what Big Sherlock does and puts it on the internet.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Is that how the lady knew us?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head rather furiously while arranging the crayons by colour. “No!” he huffed. “She knows you. And… and that lady.”  
  
“What lady?”  
  
“That lady you… you and she… and you leave me alone and you snog and when you come back you smell like her stinky perfume and it’s gross.”  
  
“Mary?” John felt his throat tighten.  
  
“Dunno. Paper.”  
  
“So the lady in the park knows Mary, too?” John had the oddest sensation that the floor was opening up and he was being swallowed by it.  
  
“I guess. Yeah. She said she saw you at uh… a thing. Daddy, I need paper.”  
  
“Sherlock, what was the boy’s name?” It was difficult to keep his voice even; his chest hurt.  
  
“Um… Archie. He has hair like mine and he likes bugs, too. Daddy, I want something to colour on.”  
  
Archie. Oh, SHIT, Sherlock. He knew exactly who the detective was talking about. This was more than A Bit Not Good.  
  
“Daddy! PAPER!”  
  
“What? Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Here’s some…”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock, ensconced in front of the telly with his crayons and a Mr Bean DVD, looked sufficiently engrossed that John felt it safe to sneak upstairs with his mobile. Mary answered immediately.  
  
“How is he?” she asked eagerly.  
  
“Erm… he’s pretty fucked up.” No sense in not being honest.  
  
“Was he… using?”  
  
“No. But he’s definitely not himself. I’m staying with him.”  
  
“I figured.”  
  
“Mary. Listen. Has anyone—any of your friends—been in touch today?”  
  
“Actually, yeah. I got a message from Lynda—didn’t phone her back yet. Why?”  
  
“Just… erm… this is awkward. Look, there’s something about Sherlock I haven’t told you and I honestly have no intention of telling you, but Lynda and Archie were at the playground and they talked to him and she might just… have something to say about it.”  
  
“Oh, God. He didn’t... approach Archie, did he?”  
  
“Not in the way you’re suggesting. Listen. I can’t explain it. Just do me a favour and don’t call Lynda back. Please.”  
  
“If it’s that important to you, I won’t.”  
  
John gave a heartfelt sigh. “Thank you. I’ll phone you in the morning, all right?”  
  
“Of course, my love. Night-night.”  
  
“Good night.”  
  
*  
  
 _Playground?_  
  
*  
  
“Hello, Lynda? It’s Mary.”  
  
*  
  
“No! Really? I had no idea. John said there was something about him that he couldn’t tell me. I’m so sorry. Is Archie all right?”  
  
Mary might have been faking the concern (Archie was an odd little boy who, ironically, reminded her of her nemesis), but she wasn’t faking her surprise. How had she missed this? And why hadn’t John told her? Sherlock was one fucked-up weirdo, all right.  
  
“Is he? Well, that’s good. Honestly, I don’t know what else to say, but I’m thinking that he’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread this around, right?” She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table angrily, fighting desperately to keep her voice light. She forced a smile; she knew she’d sound more convincing and pleasant that way. “I mean, Sherlock and John would appreciate it. Yeah? Right. Right. Okay. Yeah. Thanks so much, love. Kisses to Bertie, yeah? Night.”  
  
The battery cover popped off when she slammed her mobile to the table.  
  
*  
  
They were cuddled in the big bed together. Sherlock had flat out refused to change his clothing and John had finally given up. Now his eyes were closing of their own volition, but he was still protesting that he wasn’t sleepy. “Just one story,” Daddy warned, “and then it’s lights out.”  
  
“No!” His eyes flew open. “No dark!”  
  
“Okay. Okay. It’s all right. I’ll leave the nightlight on and I’ll be right here next to you, all right?” Sherlock nodded warily, his breath hitching. John wrapped his arms around him and rocked him a bit. “Don’t worry, my sweet boy. Daddy is right here. He’s not going anywhere. And if you need me in the night, you’ll let me know, right? Even if it’s just for a wee, yeah?”  
  
“’kay.”  
  
*  
  
Mary lay in their bed alone. She stared at the ceiling, her face like stone.  
  
Fuck Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Fuck him fuck him fuck him  
  
He had taken away her first—the very first person she had really, truly loved, and now… he was taking away the second.  
  



	26. Chapter 26

“GET OFF ME!”  
  
John found himself on the floor before he knew what was happening. He had been in a light sleep, aware that it was morning. Sherlock, who had had a (not unexpectedly) restless night, was stirring.  
  
Apparently he was more awake than John realised.  
  
And he was no longer Little.  
  
“What the hell?” he shouted back, just sitting where he was for a few seconds in shock.  
  
“GET OUT!” The younger man threw a pillow at him.  
  
“God, Sherlock, I know you’re having a lot of problems, and that they aren’t your fault,” John sighed as he got himself to his feet, “but I am having a bit of trouble with the roller coaster.”  
  
“The only problem I’m having is your constant uninvited presence in my home,” he spat back haughtily.  
  
His brain was Swiss cheese, he reminded himself. So, which Sherlock was he facing this morning? _His_ home. So, he knew he was in 221B. That it was not John’s home. He was present in time. _Get off_ … clearly not welcome in his bed. So, very much aware that they were not a couple. But clearly not recalling the previous day’s activities.  
  
“I should start carrying a notebook,” the doctor commented exhaustedly. “I can’t keep up with you.”  
  
“Of course you can’t. No one can,” came the obnoxious reply. “That’s why I always work alone.”  
  
“You always… okay. Fine. I don’t feel like arguing. I’m going to head to work. You all right?”  
  
In response, Sherlock flopped back onto the remaining pillows and pulled the covers over his head.  
  
*  
  
“John?” Sherlock called out hesitantly. He had fallen asleep again after… after what? What had happened that morning? He noted the pillow on the floor.  
  
Oh. That’s right. He had had an odd dream about that pirate ship in the park and about Da… John, and at some point he had half woken up and thought he was arguing with the doctor and had thrown one of the pillows at him.  
  
What the hell was he wearing?  
  
Never mind. He felt grubby and wanted a bath.  
  
*  
  
“What’s been going on?” Mary demanded. John had arrived at the surgery late and exhausted. He snapped at everyone, including patients, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She shut the door to the waiting room firmly behind herself.  
  
“I’ve been awful, haven’t I?” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m so sorry. I’m just so tired and…”  
  
“Frustrated?”  
  
“Extremely. I know it’s not his fault—and there’s no telling how long it’s going to take for him to heal—but I just want…”  
  
“What _do_ you want, John?” she asked, quietly but firmly.  
  
“I want him to be well. Whole. Healed.”  
  
“You want him the way he was,” she stated.  
  
He nodded, once, ducking his head down to his chest and keeping it that way.  
  
“You want _everything_ the way it was, don’t you?” Her voice was flat.  
  
He sighed as she slammed to door behind herself on the way back out to the reception desk.  
  
*  
  
_You have my book on forensic terminology. SH_  
  
_Which one?_  
  
_Dictionary of Forensic Science. SH_  
  
_That’s because it’s mine._  
  
John got no reply to that; he wasn’t expecting one.  
  
*  
  
“Third domestic violence case in as many weeks. What the hell’s wrong with people?” Greg pushed the latest file across his desk, as far away from himself as he could reach.  
  
“Sounds like you need a break.”  
  
“That’d be nice.”  
  
“Let’s go see a film tonight.”  
  
“Yeah. All right.” He poked his computer awake and began searching for something playing that they’d both like.  
  
Both of them.  
  
Greg and his first wife.  
  
With Gilly.  
  
*  
  
_Dyed hair_  
  
_Secret_  
  
_Laser surgery_  
  
_Alert_  
  
_Cat lover_  
  
_Dangerous_  
  
_Awful blouse_  
  
_Deadly_  
  
_Liar_  
  
_Liar_  
  
_Liar_  
  
*  
  
“Why are you here?” John sighed. He was too tired to be furious. The dark-haired man in front of him shrugged petulantly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his Belstaff coat.  
  
“No, seriously, Sherlock. Unless you are here to see a doctor—and not this doctor—you have no reason to be here.”  
  
“I…” he started.  
  
And then he stopped.  
  
He turned abruptly and strode rapidly back out.  
  
John ran his hand down his face.  
  
*  
  
“Sorry. He slipped by me,” Mary offered. “You got rid of him quickly enough, at least.”  
  
“It’s all right. I’m doing a shepherd’s pie, okay?” John was standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing his hands.  
  
“Yeah. That’d be great.”  
  
She already knew that he would put either peas or carrots in it. Never both.  
  
*  
  
“This is intolerable,” Sherlock snarled at no one in particular. He nearly always spoke to no one in particular these days. Even Mrs Hudson, worn down by his mood swings, had stopped popping upstairs. He had been banned from crime scenes. He had been banned from John’s surgery. He had been banned from the British Museum. He had been banned from Bart’s. He had been banned from the morgue. He had been banned from Speedy’s.  
  
It had taken a few weeks, but it was a personal record for him.  
  
No one wanted him.  
  
Fine.  
  
He didn’t need them. He was fine on his own.  
  
He would…  
  
He was…  
  
What had he been doing?  
  
He had started to…  
  
Damn.  
  
What the hell had he been doing? It was driving him mad. He was having fewer and fewer instances of lost time, at least, but that wasn’t solving his inability to concentrate. In fact, it was making it more distressing—now that he was aware of unbroken periods of time, he was also aware that his thoughts were still horribly jumbled.  
  
He was so easily distracted. He’d start on one thing, then jump to another. Tangent upon tangent.  
  
Mrs Hudson was complaining about birds getting into her bins what kind of birds some sort of sparrow and he thought she said swallow at first and didn’t think they would do much damage but he’d see what he could do so he went out and looked at them the bins and the birds both and they weren’t swallows but sparrows and they flew away when he approached and for little things they flew quite fast and what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow so he went back in he should fix the door hinges why were there bootlaces in the kitchen drawer neither he nor John wore laced boots john wore sensible shoes and he wore was that a hole in his sock were they the right socks what day was it was it daytime had he eaten that day he didn’t see any dishes in the sink next to the sink were three petri dishes what had he been culturing had he been culturing anything he had a craving for tinned pears did he have any there was a jar of pureed pears that would be nice pears were safe bananas were not always safe damn he dropped the pears sometimes he liked crisps he could get crisps if he went out if he went out he would have to change his socks first but then it wouldn’t be today anymore and was he going to eat again if it wasn’t today anymore?  
  
*  
  
Martha Hudson had enjoyed more herbal soother than usual and dozed off in her comfortable chair. She did not hear him go out.  
  
*  
  
He was focused now. He had a goal. He headed out. He had fixed the door hinges so they no longer sounded like some sort of large animal being hit by a bus—Mrs Hudson really was clever about some things—and she was out like a light anyway.  
  
Out on the street he automatically headed in the opposite direction of his goal; he had long ago established a path that minimized his exposure to Mycroft’s damn cameras, and upon his return to London he had tested it out several times to ensure that he knew about any changes. He knew that Mycroft knew about it. He smiled a bit to himself, picturing the expression of frustration and disgust his actions would elicit from Big Bro… from his brother.  
  
*  
  
“Sir, it’s…”  
  
“No. No interruptions.” Mycroft held up his hand.  
  
“But it’s...”  
  
“Not right now!” Mycroft slammed his hand down on his desk. “Get out.”  
  
He made sure that he heard the door click firmly shut before picking up the receiver of one of several phones on his desk, clearing his throat, and mentally brushing up on his Cantonese.  
  
*  
  
“Perhaps we should invite him for dinner,” Mr Holmes mused.  
  
“How do we do that when he doesn’t answer his phone?” Mrs Holmes shot back. She immediately put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, my love!”  
  
“It’s all right, my dear. He’ll be all right.”  
  
He held her close and gently kissed her temple. _Please, God, let our sweet boy be all right,_ he silently prayed.  
  
*  
  
Oh, that was better. So so so very much better.  
  
Dealers were so predictable. If he hadn’t been able to contact any of his old ones, he could have found at least three new ones that evening alone. As it turned out, one of them was still plying his trade and one had been replaced by his brother, and they had been delighted to see him.  
  
How nice to finally encounter someone who wanted him.  
  
The third dealer was dead. Fine. He’d find a third easily enough some other evening. He had enough for tonight.  
  
*  
  
“This is delicious,” Mary told him, sincerely. He smiled; even then she could see the exhaustion on his features. _Fuck Sherlock Holmes_ she thought as she took another steaming-hot mouthful.  
  
*  
  
Oh! That was brilliant!  
  
He checked the petri dishes for any signs of growth of a particular type of mould common to oranges. If the test was positive, he could eliminate the main suspect.  
  
He wondered if he should phone Lestrade with his findings, or if that would result in shouting. Could he share his findings without letting on that he had hacked into the Yard’s network? He reviewed the facts of the case that had been released to the public.  
  
No, there was no mention of the suspect’s citrus allergy in any of the news stories. Damn. Maybe Lestrade wouldn’t notice. No, he would. Despite Sherlock’s low opinion of almost everyone’s intellect, he did know that DI Lestrade was a good detective and he would, at least eventually, realise what Sherlock had done.  
  
The effects of his most recent hit were starting to fade. He prepared his next whilst considering the possibility of sending the Yard an anonymous tip. Damn, his veins were a mess. He stood up and slid off his trousers. Femoral vein—that might do the trick.  
  
He didn’t even hesitate at the sight of the scars anymore.  
  
Not most of them, anyway.  
  
*  
  
“Why wasn’t I informed?” Mycroft’s lowered voice was more frightening than the loudest shout; his words were so clipped they caused an almost physical pain.  
  
“I tried, sir. You didn’t want to be interrupted.”  
  
“Damn. Where is he now?”  
  
“Back at his flat.”  
  
“Fine.” It was anything but fine, but Mycroft was not about to let the cowering idiot in front of him know that. And he must have been excessively affected by the news that his little brother was using again. He barely enjoyed sacking the idiot.  
  
*  
  
He sprawled in his chair, fiddling with his mobile, flicking aimlessly through his contacts.  
  
He wanted to.  
  
Oh, God, he wanted to.  
  
He wanted to phone him. Text him. Anything.  
  
He threw the mobile across the room and huddled into the chair, cradling his head in his shaking hands.  
  
*  
  
John stared at his mobile. It was sitting innocuously on his desk. He had reached for it three times in the past hour when he was supposed to be reviewing and updating patients’ records. He would work diligently for a bit; get through maybe three people. And then he would pause. Glance at it. Glance back at the files before him. Reach a hesitant hand out to it. Pull it back. Straighten his back; take a deep breath—shake his head and deliberately place his hand on the next file; on the keyboard. On a pen.  
  
On anything but his mobile.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock heaved himself out of his chair with an exasperated sigh—one that he was particularly proud of. He used to practise sometimes—his goal was always to see what would annoy John the most. He retrieved his mobile and wandered into the kitchen with it. Scrolled through the contacts again. Leaned against the counter and rapidly sent a text.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, goodness!” Mrs Holmes exclaimed, digging her mobile out of her pocket. She retrieved her reading glasses from on top of her head, heedless of the dirt on her hands, slid them down to her nose, and frowned at the small device.  
  
“Well, then,” she muttered, reading the message twice before heaving herself up from her knees, brushing the soil off them, and heading into the house through the kitchen. “Darling?” she called out.  
  
“In here, my love,” came her husband’s always-gentle voice. He was in the sitting room, fiddling with the fireplace. He had brushed it clean. He dusted his hands off against one another and, a hand propped on the wall, rose carefully.  
  
“You’ll never guess,” she announced, a bit dazedly.  
  
He looked at her face carefully before responding confidently, “You’ve got a text from one of our sons.”  
  
She smiled the tiniest bit. “Yes, I have,” she admitted. “Which one?”  
  
His eyes swept her up and down. “Sherlock,” he determined.  
  
“Correct as always, my love. How do you know?”  
  
“Your hair.”  
  
“My hair?”  
  
“When Mycroft contacts us, you unconsciously tidy your hair. You never do that for our sweet boy.”  
  
She laughed. “You’re so clever,” she admitted. “’Lock never cares about how my hair looks.”  
  
“What did he say?” He gestured toward the mobile in her garden-dirt-encrusted hand.  
  
“I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted, handing the device to him. He retrieved his reading glasses (his were on a chain) and examined it.  
  
“’Is there a difference in hair dyes?’” he read aloud. “Hum.” He considered the message for a few seconds. He could picture his younger son sending it—probably sprawled untidily on the sofa in their—in his—flat, a scowl marring his sweet features. He thought for a bit. “Ah!” he exclaimed. He got it. “He wants to know if there are actual differences in different brands of hair dyes.”  
  
“Does he?” his wife shot back in puzzlement.  
  
He handed the mobile back to her. “It seems fairly likely—someone dyeing their hair is right up his street. Disguise, you know.”  
  
“Oh!” she exclaimed, beaming. “That does makes sense.” She frowned down at the small object, carefully manipulating it (autocorrect was the work of the devil, she was convinced) until she managed to send a coherent reply.  
  
*  
  
_Yes some are very harsh all brands slightly different results_  
  
Sherlock grinned a bit wickedly. “Thanks, Mummy,” he murmured.


	27. Chapter 27

“Come have some soup,” Mrs Hudson chirped.  
  
Sherlock glanced at her, his eyes flicking up and down as she removed the take-away container from the microwave (he had obediently removed the beaker that had been inhabiting it and equally obediently did not tell her exactly what was in the beaker).  
  
“What kind is it?” he inquired suspiciously, scowling at the container as she deposited it carefully on the counter and began searching for a clean spoon.  
  
“Oh, please, young man. You know I would only get you something you’d like.” She eased the lid off and triumphantly dropped a spoon into the steaming hot liquid. “Now eat.”  
  
He peered at the soup. “Cream of tomato?”  
  
“I know you like that.”  
  
He nodded and picked up the container, somewhat hesitantly taking a taste. It seemed to please him and he began to slurp it down noisily, leaning against the counter.  
  
“Manners,” she chided gently.  
  
“New place?” he mumbled around his spoon, glancing at the logo printed on the container.  
  
“Yes. I went there for lunch with John and his girlfriend—”  
  
The bathroom door slammed and she huffed in annoyance, found a roll of kitchen towels, and began to clean up the soup splattered across the kitchen floor.  
  
*  
  
“Damn it, Sherlock! What the hell did you do to yourself this time?”  
  
“Nothing,” he mumbled, cradling his left arm in his right hand.  
  
“Nothing? Mrs Hudson phoned me to say that you needed immediate medical attention over nothing?” John strode across the room and tossed his medical kit angrily onto his chair.  
  
“She’s an hysterical old woman who overreacts to everything.”  
  
“If it’s nothing, then let me see your arm,” John snapped back.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes.” John reached down and easily pulled the thin man’s arm away from where he had it pressed against his chest. He held the wrist steady and lifted the unfastened cuff of the dress shirt carefully, exposing a reddened, crusty area on the underside of the pale forearm. “Damn. That’s a chemical burn, you berk. What did you get into?”  
  
“Hair dye,” Sherlock admitted, attempting to pull his arm back. “I didn’t realise I had gotten any on my arm until it started to hurt.”  
  
“How long was it on there?”  
  
“A few hours, more or less,” the dark-haired man replied evasively. He had to be evasive. He wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been. Ten hours? Twelve?  
  
“Experimenting or just freshening your roots?” John hissed humourlessly. He started to fold the sleeve back.  
  
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said in alarm, pulling harder. “Don’t.”  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock. Really?”  
  
John had exposed the track marks.  
  
Sherlock found himself unable to raise his eyes from the floor. Was he angry that John had exposed him? Ashamed? He couldn’t tell the difference; he just knew that he didn’t want to look the doctor in the eye.  
  
“Use a hydrocortisone cream on it a few times a day and watch for infection,” John shot over his shoulder as he marched out of the flat.  
  
Sherlock flinched as the street door slammed.  
  
*  
  
“Get that away from me,” Lestrade snarled, scowling darkly at the microphone shoved uncomfortably close to his face.  
  
“Sir? Sir!” the reporter implored, gesturing animatedly at her camera crew to follow her as she pursued him across the pavement. “There have been reports of Sherlock Holmes being seen in the company of known drug dealers. Did he develop a drug habit while he was away?”  
  
Greg didn’t even bother with a “no comment.” He snapped his fingers as he entered the main lobby of The Yard and grinned a bit wickedly as the reporter and her crew were hustled smartly back out.  
  
*  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock, answer your phone,” he huffed. Even in the privacy of his office, he kept his back to the door. He didn’t need anyone in his division seeing the look of anguish on his face.  
  
Was he using again?  
  
Did the earth revolve around the sun?  
  
Fuck.  
  
He called up a different name from his contact list.  
  
*  
  
“You bastard!” John flinched. Sherlock rarely used language like that. “You told Lestrade…” he hesitated.  
  
“That you were using? Yeah, I did,” John supplied calmly.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it’s illegal?” John offered drily.  
  
“Oh, please. As if you’ve never broken a law,” Sherlock spat back.  
  
“Because it’ll fuck you up and eventually kill you? Do you really need me to tell you this again?” John growled, neatly ignoring Sherlock’s comment.  
  
“Sometimes I hate you.”  
  
John shut his eyes in anguish, dropping his mobile to his desk and dropping his head into his hands. Sherlock had already ended the call.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock shifted. He was getting stiff, leaning against the wall. He hadn’t planned on being there that long.  
  
Mary was late.  
  
Oh, wait. There she was. He watched her enter the shop and followed a minute later, his trainers making no sound on the pavement.  
  
It was easy enough to follow her as she filled her trolley. He pushed his own along, casually tossing items into it; selecting items that John had always disparagingly termed “bachelor food”—ready meals, crisps, biscuits, fizzy drinks. He kept well behind her as she methodically worked through the shelves—so predictable, he sneered to himself. She read labels and fussed about calories or whatever it was that people fussed about, but also seemed quite happy to pick up some crisps.  
  
“John doesn’t like that kind,” he murmured under his breath.  
  
When she had checked out and exited, he abandoned his trolley and followed.  
  
*  
  
She must have more errands, he reflected as she headed in the opposite direction from their flat. He knew where that was, of course—that had been simple enough to discover. He debated continuing his surveillance. She seemed to be in boring-girlfriend mode. But would she continue, making stops at the chemist’s and dry cleaner, or would she do something more interesting?  
  
He followed.  
  
*  
  
“Thanks,” she said as John helped her unpack her purchases and efficiently put things away. She noted that he paused at one item and looked at his face.  
  
“Oh, God,” she gasped. “That’s the kind you don’t like, isn’t it? I’m so sorry—I forgot.”  
  
“It’s all right. It’s not like I need crisps—not very good for my waistline, yeah?”  
  
He left the bag of salt and vinegar crisps on the counter. He hadn’t even thought about them since—  
  
They were Sherlock’s favourite.  
  
*  
  
“What’ve you been up to now?” Greg demanded, staring around himself in alarm. All of the cupboards in the kitchen of 221B were wide open, their contents tossed carelessly on the counter and table.  
  
*  
  
“What’s that?” Mary inquired, indicating the small package on John’s desk.  
  
“Don’t know,” he admitted. He was quietly examining it. It was hand-addressed to him at the surgery. He pulled his pocket knife out and carefully opened it.  
  
Mary wanted to say something—anything—but his expression stopped her. He had withdrawn an item wrapped in newspaper from the package and carefully unwrapped it.  
  
Put the object on his desk.  
  
Pushed himself away from the desk, rose, and without a word walked out, carrying the empty box with him.  
  
How odd, she thought. Who had sent John a well-used mug bearing the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps? And why was a packet of Twiglets tucked into it?  
  
*  
  
Why, Sherlock? What did this mean? He had missed his mug, of course. He knew where it had been. It was one of the few items that Mycroft’s team had missed when they had moved him to his new flat (while he was “resting,” as they insisted on terming it).  
  
And then, as he gradually recovered himself (he did not think of it as “getting over it,” because he most assuredly had not), he debated going back for it. Going back to the flat. Into the kitchen. Open the cupboard. Push past the other mugs (why did Sherlock have a mug with an eyeball on it? Oh, yes, he had gotten that for him as a joke and Sherlock, in a rare mood, had begun making ridiculous suppositions about what “eyeball tea” would taste like and they both had giggled themselves quite giddy) and a few glasses and one unbroken wine glass. It would probably still have been all the way in the back. Safe from long, white fingers.  
  
Because as he moved things around in the sitting room to aggravate Sherlock, Sherlock moved things around in the kitchen to aggravate him. The bathroom was neutral territory and everything from Sherlock’s ludicrously expensive body wash and shampoo to John’s favourite razor to the basket of bath toys topped with the special mat… John didn’t want to think about that.  
  
But Sherlock, for all his insanity and complete disregard for any sense of personal space or respect or sentiment…  
  
He always left John’s mug unmolested.  
  
And now here it was. The box with the familiar handwriting on it had given him pause—the letters were wobbly, as if the hand that had formed them was shaking, he noted. The feel and heft of the mug as he unwrapped it from the ubiquitous newspapers made his chest hurt.  
  
The mug itself? A pounding heart.  
  
And the Twiglets?  
  
He was a bit alarmed about the odd things happening on the periphery of his vision.  
  
How did he know? How did he know that he had been craving the cheap, horribly-unhealthy snack, triggered by Mary buying those wretched salt-and-vinegar crisps that he despised but had gotten for his… for Sherlock… how many times? Even for Sherlock’s frightening abilities, this was a bit extreme. How did he know?  
  
*  
  
 _John! SH_  
  
 _What?_  
  
 _A client brought me biscuits as a gesture of gratitude. SH_  
  
 _Do they have walnuts?_  
  
 _Yes. SH_  
  
 _Give them to Mrs H_  
  
 _Why? SH_  
  
 _They make you sick. You know that._  
  
 _Oh. SH_  
  
 _You really don’t know anything do you?_  
  
 _No. SH_  
  
John wanted to send a response—something; anything—as long as it included the words “my love.”  
  
He prayed that the git didn’t try the biscuits. The irritation from walnuts was one of his— _messier_ reactions.  
  
 _If you really want them, get a bin ahead of time_  
  
He added “my love” in his head.  
  
And prayed that the idiot did not take a bite.  
  
*  
  
John opened the small package. He wasn’t surprised to find that it held a container of homemade biscuits—with walnuts. _I asked Mrs Hudson to make these for you. SH_ The note was scrawled on half a sheet of A4 paper with an odd stain on the bottom, partially torn off. It smelled slightly of ammonia, but the biscuits were well sealed.   
  
They were shaped like little hedgehogs, complete with “spines” made of crushed walnuts. There was also a small box of very nice tea and a few oranges.  
  
John wiped the crumbs off his mouth hastily as Mary buzzed him about his next patient.  
  
*  
  
“I’m sending you the photos now,” Greg told him, rapidly attaching the files to an email. “Just take a look, will you?” He listened and nodded as he hit Send. “Yeah. That’d be great. Thanks, mate.”  
  
*  
  
John finally opened the email from Sherlock; he had noted it that morning but had deliberately waited until Mary went out to get both of them some lunch before reading it.  
  
 _Tidying up. Found these. SH_  
  
The attached photos were from some press conference or other. They had been taken in rapid sequence. In the first few, Sherlock looked irritated and John was frowning, his hand on Sherlock’s elbow. Then he was standing right next to him, whispering something into his ear with a somewhat mischievous smile. In the last few Sherlock was grinning wickedly, his entire attention on his blogger.  
  
In the very last one John had grabbed Sherlock’s hand and was pulling him away from the crowd.  
  
*  
  
“What is it, brother dear?” Mycroft tried to sound irritated, but he suspected that he sounded more relieved than anything. Damn.  
  
“Why do you bother?” his younger brother demanded.  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”  
  
“The ties, Mycroft. You got me ties. You know that I don’t wear them.”  
  
“You can, you know. You are bigger than this.”  
  
Sherlock ended the call abruptly.  
  
*  
  
This package was flat and lightweight and John suspected he knew what it was before he opened it. He put it on the floor under his desk until he could hear that Mary was tied up on the phone.  
  
Yes, as he suspected. It was a tie, and it probably cost as much as their rent for a month. And was rather quite handsome, he had to admit.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock slouched over to the sofa and slumped down onto it. His head ached and he felt like he was going to be sick. He had not enjoyed his most recent case one bit. He was glad that he had reunited the old woman and her purebred, prize-winning dog—he had no idea why that sort of dog, of that particular colour and size, was any better than any other dog, but apparently it was and was worth a great deal of money as well. He was glad, he supposed, because he had made her happy, and the dog himself was actually rather great fun to play with, and he certainly didn’t object to the cheque that now sat on the desk. He just didn’t _understand_ it. Then his head had begun to hurt and he started to feel ill and the nice woman asked if he was all right and he had snapped at her to shut up and stormed out and as soon as he had gotten back to the flat he had changed into old, soft, shapeless pyjamas and was now lying down with his eyes shut and praying that he would not be sick because that meant getting up and rushing to the toilet and the bathroom tile was cold under his knees and it was echo-y and everything was hard and his mouth tasted horrible now and there was no one to hand him a glass of water and tell him to rinse and flush and to wipe his face with a damp flannel.  
  
He wobbled into the bedroom and fell onto the bed, not noticing that the mattress was bare.  
  
The bedding was all on the floor.  
  
*  
  
Stupid job stupid patients stupid neighbours stupid errands stupid cover  
  
God it was boring.  
  
*  
  
That day’s package contained very nice pyjamas and a packet of breath mints.  
  
*  
  
 _I need you to stop sending me things_  
  
 _Why? SH_  
  
 _It’s not appropriate_  
  
 _What has been inappropriate? SH_  
  
 _It’s not that the things are inappropriate it’s that you’re sending them._  
  
 _I don’t understand. SH_  
  
 _Sweetheart you send me things that imply a relationship that no longer exists_  
  
*  
  
Oh.  
  
All the words.  
  
John had used all the words.  
  
He could have said… He could have said “things that make people think we’re still fucking.”  
  
He could have said it that way.  
  
Such a crude word.  
  
Such a lovely thing.  
  
Fucking  
  
It no longer exists.  
  
He and John  
  
no longer existed  
  
*  
  
Sweetheart—he wanted to be someone’s sweetheart again.  
  
No—he wanted to be one person’s sweetheart again.  
  
He curled up in the big bed alone with a book but he couldn’t bear the silence so he had music playing and all the lights on and no matter what he did to fill the void it was still empty dark cold silent.  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” Mary demanded, walking in and staring down at him in their bed.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock,” DI Lestrade said as patiently as he could. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Here” was Lestrade’s flat. The thin man was seated on the sofa, bolt upright, his hands clasped in front of himself. Greg had known that something was up as soon as he opened his door; he knew that he hadn’t left the light on.  
  
“I’m… visiting,” the detective replied tightly.  
  
“Visiting. Okay.” The silver-haired man sighed and removed his coat. He was tired—too tired to object to the madman picking his lock. “So why don’t you take off your coat and stay awhile?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t move.  
  
“Okay. What do you really want?” Greg finally demanded.  
  
Sherlock explained what he really wanted.  
  
*  
  
“I told you to stop sending me things!” John shouted.  
  
“I wanted you to have it,” Sherlock explained.  
  
“I don’t… I don’t have a place for it right now.”  
  
“It’s one photo.”  
  
“That’s not the point.” John ran his hand through his hair.  
  
“Then what is?”  
  
“It’s… damn it, Sherlock. We were… whatever we were, we are no longer. You fucking died. You left me alone for two fucking years. Do you know how hateful that was?”  
  
“Yes, I do.”  
  
They both paused for a few seconds, breathing heavily.  
  
“So, we are no longer what we were and you wish for me to accept that?” the detective finally offered coldly.  
  
“I… not quite… I can’t do this by phone,” John spluttered.  
  
“If there is no relationship, Doctor, there is nothing to ‘do’.”  
  
“I didn’t… Sherlock? Fuck!”  
  
Sherlock had ended the call.  
  
*  
  
The photo was of the two of them. It had been taken outdoors and had the distinct look of a forensics crime scene photo; he wondered how Sherlock had gotten his hands on it. In it, Sherlock was pointing towards something at a good elevation. John realised that Greg was in the image as well—well, the back of his head was as he gazed in the direction the detective was indicating.  
  
John wasn’t.  
  
John was looking directly at Sherlock, a proud smile on his face.  
  
*  
  
The glass made a satisfying sound as it shattered; he admired the dent in the frame as well.


	28. Chapter 28

“Why is _he_ here?” Sherlock snapped, scowling.  
  
“Why is _he_ here?” John snarled simultaneously.  
  
Greg put his hands up; he wasn’t sure if it was to prevent them from strangling each other or strangling him. “That’s enough,” he stated firmly. “Yeah, it was a dirty trick, but you two need to talk to each other.”  
  
“Why? He clearly doesn’t want to speak to me,” Sherlock spat out, staring daggers at the DI.  
  
“Well, I try to keep my conversations with dickheads to a minimum,” John hissed back, glaring at the grey-haired man as well.  
  
“ALL RIGHT!” Greg roared, startling both of them (and half of the people in the pub). “BOTH OF YOU SIT DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP.”  
  
Both of them sat down and shut the fuck up.  
  
In their hurry to slide into the booth, they had accidentally bumped knees, and each man hastily adjusted his position so there was no more contact.  
  
*  
  
They glared at each other for a full three minutes. Didn’t that mean they were supposed to get married or something?  
  
Hadn’t they been?  
  
Shit.  
  
 _Not one of your more brilliant ideas,_ Greg, he told himself.  
  
*  
  
“Why the hell did he—?”  
  
“You are supposed to be talking to each other, not to me.”  
  
“I’m not talking to that wanker.”  
  
“John, sit down.”  
  
*  
  
“I don’t see the point of this.”  
  
“Sherlock, sit down.”  
  
*  
  
When the bartender threatened to call the police, Lestrade pulled rank; he did not want to get thrown out of the pub despite the two complete wankers he had been idiotic enough to try to get together there. He should have had them to his flat, he realised.  
  
Bit late for that.  
  
*  
  
“He’s a self-centred prick. An egomaniac.”  
  
“That’s no way to talk about your own brother.”  
  
*  
  
“Two years. TWO YEARS you let me grieve.”  
  
“John… don’t you think that if I could have, I would have contacted you?”  
  
*  
  
“John. Please. If it could have been any other way…”  
  
*  
  
“He’s a self-centred prick. An egomaniac.”  
  
“Yeah, he is. But there was a time when he was also the best thing that ever happened to you.”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, you don’t really drink. Maybe you shouldn’t…”  
  
*  
  
“No, I CANNOT tell you where I was.”  
  
“Why the hell not?”  
  
“Because I CAN’T REMEMBER!”  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock, you can’t eat that. It makes you sick.”  
  
*  
  
“No. It’s fine. I’ve got him.”  
  
*  
  
“Come on, love. Let’s get you home.”  
  
*  
  
Greg heaved a huge sigh of relief as the cab pulled out into traffic. He pulled out his credit card; tonight was going to cost him a fortune, but it had been worth it.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, my poor sweetheart. It’s all right. Let’s get you cleaned up and into something more comfortable.” John helped him off with his coat and patted him on the back. They walked slowly down the hallway and into the bathroom. John picked up Sherlock’s toothbrush, added toothpaste, and handed it to him. The taller man brushed briefly, dropping the toothbrush into the sink when he was done.  
  
“Better?” John asked mildly.  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“All right. Bedroom. Pyjamas.” He ushered him in, his hand on the small of his back. He began to pull clothing out of drawers. “Get that lot off,” he instructed.  
  
“I can change my own clothing,” Sherlock retorted sharply, shoving John out of the bedroom.  
  
“All right!” John put up his hands in surrender. “Just trying to help.” He headed towards the kitchen. He would give Sherlock five minutes to change, then bring him a glass of water. It felt so odd to be back in the flat like that. Everything was so familiar; so unchanged. It had a disconcerting effect—as if he had travelled in time somehow.  
  
He shook his head; he didn’t like the sound of the echoes.  
  
“All set?” he called out as he went back into the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting on the bed. “Have some water.” He offered him the glass. Sherlock’s hands were shaking too much to hold it. He sat next to him and helped him have a few sips. “Lie down,” he instructed. Sherlock lay down. “Do you think you can sleep?” Sherlock shook his head. “What will help?”  
  
“You should go home.”  
  
God, John thought. He sounds absolutely miserable. “Nope,” he smiled. “How about I read to you?”  
  
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was sound asleep. John, seated with his back against the headboard, reached over and affectionately ran his fingers through the dark curls.  
  
Oh God how much he had missed this.


	29. Chapter 29

“No, he’s all right now. I stayed with him.” John wandered around the sitting room, his phone to his ear.  
  
“Yeah?” _Oh, smooth, Greg,_ he thought to himself. _Sounded just a bit eager there, didn’t you?_  
  
“Don’t get any funny ideas,” the doctor warned.   
  
Shit. Oh, well. “No,” he protested, rather reluctantly. “I’m not.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” John shot back. “I’m not an idiot, Greg. I know what last night was about.”  
  
“Oh,” he sighed. “Sorry. A bit heavy-handed?”  
  
“Actually… no.”  
  
The change in John’s tone gave Greg pause. “What’s up?” he asked, gently.  
  
“Last night… yeah, I was furious with you. I’ve sort of had it with him.”  
  
“But…?”  
  
John chuckled bitterly. “But… yeah.” He sounded defeated now.  
  
“God, John, I didn’t… mean to… I’m not sure what I meant to do,” he admitted.  
  
“You meant to get us back together,” the doctor stated flatly.  
  
“Erm… yeah. I did. Well… no. Not exactly. It’s the damned arguing—I’m sick of the two of you constantly complaining about each other.”  
  
“He complains about me?”  
  
Greg smiled grimly at that—John wasn’t denying that he raged about Sherlock. “All the time.”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About…” he paused.  
  
“About?”  
  
“He thinks you’ve gotten boring,” Greg admitted, all in a rush. “You know… the job at the surgery and regular hours and a girlfriend and all that.”  
  
There was a pause in the conversation.  
  
“John?” Greg finally prodded.  
  
“His books are out of order.”  
  
Greg had no idea what the doctor was talking about. “Is that an issue?” he wondered.  
  
“When we first moved in—we spent hours sorting our books…” His voice faded a bit.  
  
“John?” Greg nudged again.  
  
“He’s got—his selection of food is a bit limited. And based on last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if half of what he consumes comes back up.”  
  
“On purpose?” Greg raked his free hand through his silver hair.  
  
“Probably not. You know how he can get when he’s wound up. Yeah… hang on. He’s up. I have to go.”  
  



	30. Chapter 30

_I need to borrow your book on regeneration of ligaments and tendons. SH_  
  
 _Building a body in your lab?_  
  
 _What? SH_  
  
 _Frankenstein?_  
  
 _What are you on about? SH_  
  
 _Never mind. Yes. It’s at work. Come pick it up there tom._  
  
 _Can I? SH_  
  
 _Only if you promise to behave_  
  
 _I promise. SH_  
  
*  
  
Sherlock stared at his mobile in astonishment. John had agreed to lend him a book—an expensive one—and to let him into the surgery. Things had been a bit better since their “talk” a few weeks back (courtesy of Lestrade and he was fairly sure he had been banned from the pub). He opened his calendar app and programmed it to remind him in the morning. He had been doing better and better in terms of remembering things, but he didn’t want to risk missing something.  
  
Something so important.  
  
*  
  
“John, what is taking you so long?” Mary already had her coat on; bag and keys in hand. She jingled them impatiently. “Sick people are waiting.”  
  
“All right,” he soothed, rushing out of the bedroom and snatching up his jacket.  
  
“You look nice,” she commented approvingly.  
  
He shrugged casually. “Seemed silly to have a new shirt just sitting in a drawer.”  
  
*  
  
“You look nice,” Mrs Hudson beamed at him. He smiled shyly back as he quickly slipped on his scarf and coat, popping the collar automatically. He took a deep breath before stepping outside.  
  
“Taxi!”  
  
*  
  
“Hello, Sherlock,” Mary greeted him tentatively.  
  
“Hello, Mary,” he responded sedately. “John said I could borrow one of his textbooks.”  
  
“Did he?” she stammered in amazement. When had that happened?  
  
“Last night. Did he not tell you?”   
  
“Must have slipped his mind.”  
  
 _John hadn’t told her? Interesting._  
  
“Can I see him?” he prodded.  
  
“Oh… yes. One second.” She buzzed John’s office.  
  
“Yeah?” came the familiar voice, only slightly distorted by the intercom.  
  
“Erm… Sherlock’s here.”  
  
“Send him in.”  
  
Sherlock wondered if Mary realised that her face, like John’s, was wonderfully expressive and at the moment was virtually screaming at him her extreme dislike of him.  
  
Oh, well. He walked calmly into John’s office.  
  
He knew that she didn’t take the gun with her to the surgery.  
  
*  
  
“How have you been feeling?” John asked. He had had Sherlock close the door behind him and offered a chair, but Sherlock shook his head slightly and instead stood somewhat stiffly in front of him, his hands buried in his deep coat pockets.  
  
“Well,” he replied evenly.  
  
“Headaches?”  
  
“Not too often.”  
  
“Dizzy spells?”  
  
“Once in a while.”  
  
“Eating? Sleeping?”  
  
“John, you’re not my doctor anymore,” he reminded him without venom.  
  
“Sorry. Habit.”  
  
“It’s fine. You’re certainly not the only person constantly asking me how I’m feeling.”  
  
John grinned at the eye roll. “Oh, poor you,” he teased. “How horrid to have people care about how you’re doing.”  
  
“Mmm. Book?”  
  
“Right here.” He handed the impressively heavy tome across his desk. Sherlock stepped forward and accepted it.  
  
“I’ll be careful with it,” he promised.  
  
“You better be, or you’re replacing it—and it’s not exactly cheap.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “That’s what Mycroft’s credit card is for,” he pointed out with a straight face.  
  
“Sorry,” Mary offered insincerely to the startled patients in the waiting room as she worked the letter opener out of the now-marred surface of the reception desk. She shut off the intercom with a vicious stab. She didn’t need to hear any more of their laughter.  
  
*  
  
“How about I meet you there?” John offered.  
  
“Yes. Ten o’clock all right?” Sherlock inquired.  
  
“Fine. Yeah.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “I’ll let Molly know so she can have the cadaver ready for us. I think you’re going to find this really interesting.”  
  
“See you tomorrow.” John ended the call. “Sorry for the interruption,” he told Mary.  
  
“Your dinner’s cold,” she responded stiffly.  
  
The text she had received that morning was burned into her brain.  
  
 _You’re losing focus._  
  
*  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. I totally agree,” John nodded emphatically, stripping off the medical gloves and disposing of them.  
  
“So… this man’s a contortionist?” Molly summed up, covering the cadaver. “And a burglar?”  
  
“Only someone that flexible could get through those openings,” Sherlock explained while shooting off a rapid text.  
  
“And now he’s a murder victim?” John pressed.  
  
“Mmm. Burglar broke into the wrong house,” the detective mused. “Flexible joints; inflexible skull.”  
  
“Incredible,” John murmured.  
  
  
  



	31. Chapter 31

“Fuck, Sherlock. Where are you?” John juggled his coat with his mobile. He frowned as he listened to the reply—garbled as it was. He grabbed his wallet and ran out before Mary was even able to ask what was wrong.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, God. You massive idiot.” John jerked his mobile out of his pocket and phoned 999.  
  
*  
  
“No more of this, Sherlock. Please.”  
  
Mr Holmes patted his wife’s shoulder. He had declined a seat in the other horrid hard plastic visitor’s chair while making sure that his wife was all right. The sight of his sweet boy, pale and hooked up to who knew what machines and drips and all that had shaken him up as much as it had her, but he wanted to remain standing.  
  
It reminded him of so many years earlier, when he would sweep him up—the little body so tense it was literally rigid—and place him gently in his cot, dim the lights, and turn on some soft, lovely instrumental music for him, and then as he gradually calmed down, his stiff posture softening, leaning over him and just watching—wondering what was going on in that brilliant mind, young as it was—  
  
What was going on in that brilliant mind that frightened him so?  
  
Mr Holmes wondered the same thing now.  
  
*  
  
“Hey,” John smiled.  
  
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. “John,” he rumbled, his voice hoarse. “Surprised to see you here.”  
  
“I’ve been here every day, you git.” He pulled a chair up to the bed, and once seated reached out and took one pale hand, complete with IV, in his own.  
  
“Have you?” Sherlock looked genuinely perplexed.  
  
“I’m not surprised you don’t remember, but yeah, I have.”  
  
“Oh. Thank you,” was the stiff response.  
  
“Mary came a few times, too. Careful!”  
  
Sherlock had nearly dislodged the IV as he jerked his hand away from the doctor’s.  
  
*  
  
“I don’t have to tell you how disappointed our parents are,” Mycroft hissed. “Seriously, Sherlock. It’s bad enough that you are—indulging—again, but to overdose. Really. You are extremely fortunate that Doctor Watson thought to check on you when he did.”  
  
Sherlock considered telling Mycroft that he was wrong. It was so seldom that he had the opportunity.  
  
Damn. He was too tired…  
  
Mycroft rose and exited his baby brother’s hospital room quietly. He didn’t need to indicate that they were headed out to his assistant, posted outside in the hallway. She simply followed.  
  
*  
  
“I’ve made you some lovely soup,” Mrs Hudson said quietly. “Just cream of potato with some bacon in. You can heat it up whenever you want.”  
  
“Thank you,” he replied quietly.  
  
He meant it. He was grateful. He knew that she was not his housekeeper and not his mum and not his… he didn’t have anyone else. So he was grateful when she gently pulled the curtains shut against the unusually bright sunlight.  
  
He did wonder if anyone had cleared out his stash while he was in hospital. He supposed he would find out when he had the strength to walk down the hallway and into the bedroom.  
  
*  
  
Yes, and based on the look of the place, it had been Lestrade. Damn.


	32. Chapter 32

“Is this a bad time?” John inquired, poking his head into the flat and seeing the older couple seated on the sofa.  
  
“John! No, they were just leaving.” Sherlock was clearly flustered.  
  
“We were?” the woman asked in bewilderment and exasperation.  
  
John watched in bemusement as Sherlock hustled them out, apparently having a rather strained conversation through the door that he was desperately trying to close.  
  
“What was that all about? Clients?”  
  
“Uh… no. My… erm… parents, actually.”  
  
“Your _parents?!_ ”  
  
They both dithered through a brief conversation about why John had never met them before, and why now, and how he had missed them visiting Sherlock in hospital, and did they know that he hadn’t been dead, before John gave up. “No, it’s all right. It’s fine. I was just surprised.” He put his hands up in surrender.  
  
“Oh. All right. Fine, then,” Sherlock agreed, clearly surprised at his acquiescing. It _was_ a surprise; John usually enjoyed a good argument. “Why are you here?” He stared at the shorter man, perplexed.  
  
“You said we were going to the V&A to talk to that textiles expert,” John replied slowly, looking carefully at his friend.  
  
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I’ll just go tidy up and we’ll be on our way.” Sherlock walked out of the room. John’s eyes followed him closely, evaluating his colour; his gate. It was obvious that the detective was having some trouble maintaining his balance. And that he had no recollection of their conversation of the evening before.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said calmly, leaning against the frame of the bathroom door. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing. Just getting ready to go out.” He was trying for bored and exasperated, but it was coming out more—well, more frantic and panicking. John looked him up and down.  
  
“What did you take?” he asked evenly.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock wouldn’t look him in the eye.  
  
“What are you on?” the doctor pursued.  
  
“I’m on the first floor of 221 Baker Street,” he replied obnoxiously. “And I’d like a bit of privacy, if that’s all right with you.” He attempted to shove John back into the hallway.  
  
John wouldn’t budge. His expression remained calm; almost emotionless, but he crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet. “Nope,” he replied.  
  
Sherlock shot him a dirty look. “Must you be like this all the time?” he demanded petulantly.  
  
“Apparently, yes. What did you take?” He spoke slowly and clearly.  
  
“I’m not ‘on’ anything.”  
  
“Well, then, you won’t mind if I take your pulse and check your eyes, right?”  
  
Sherlock shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yes, I do mind,” he snarled defensively.  
  
“If you’re clean, why is it a problem?”  
  
“I’m sick of you constantly prodding me!” He ducked his head down so his chin hit his chest.  
  
“I wouldn’t have to constantly prod you if you didn’t constantly need it,” John shot back. “It’s been a week, Sherlock. One week.”  
  
“I’ve been fine.”  
  
“Then why don’t you remember our conversation last night?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes glanced down. There was a pause. “I was tired,” he finally responded. “I’m tired now. Go away.” Sherlock turned away.  
  
“Nope. Come here,” John replied, amazingly patiently.  
  
“Why?”   
  
John could tell that he was wearing him down. Good. “Because I am your doctor, and I am concerned about your health, and I am your friend, and I am concerned about you.” He reached out to—  
  
Sherlock slapped his hand away. That did it. “Sherlock, enough of the bullshit. Get your arse over here NOW!” Oh, thank God. As always, the “captain” voice worked. He wondered what he would do if that ever stopped working. Sherlock stood still in front of him, his head down. John took one of his hands and led him into the bedroom. “Sit,” he commanded. He sat. A miracle. “Look at me.”  
  
And those amazing, piercing eyes looked at him.  
  
“You’re obviously dizzy; hands are twitching. Tired. Memory loss.”  
  
Sherlock licked his lips and swallowed hard.  
  
“Dry mouth. Anything else?”  
  
“I have a headache,” he mumbled.  
  
“And you’ve—” John stopped himself.  
  
“I’ve what?” Sherlock demanded sharply.  
  
“You’ve buttoned your shirt wrong.” Saying it made John feel sick. Sherlock’s hands went to his collar, fumbling with the buttons. Discovering the odd one out. He dropped his head into his hands and John petted the dark curls. “It’s all right. What did you take?”  
  
“Sleeping tablets.”  
  
“Oh. Okay. You’ll be all right in a while,” he soothed, still stroking his head. “Why?”  
  
“I wanted to sleep, obviously.”  
  
“Yeah, I get that part. It’s just… you’ve always had trouble sleeping, but you never asked me for anything to help.”  
  
“You never offered.”  
  
“Give me some credit, you wanker. You’re an addict. Offering something as addictive and as easy to overdose on as sleeping tablets would be more than just a bit idiotic, wouldn’t it?” Sherlock grunted in agreement. “So why did you take them now, on your own?”  
  
“My head hurts.”  
  
“I’ll get you something in a minute. Answer my question, please,” he said firmly.  
  
“I wanted to…” he ended his sentence in such a low mumble that John, his hand still tangled in the dark curls, couldn’t catch it.  
  
“Try that again,” he encouraged.  
  
Sherlock raised his head and looked at him miserably. He swallowed again, took a sharp breath in, and finally replied.   
  
“I wanted to be normal,” he admitted.  
  
*  
  
“Mycroft, it’s Dad.”  
  
“Yes, I do have caller ID,” the government man replied snidely. He did love his parents, but sometimes they were just so… average.  
  
“Good for you. I’ve only got a minute—your mum’s in the shop.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“Have you seen your brother recently?”  
  
How had he known it was about Sherlock? It was always about Sherlock. He rolled his eyes. “Not since he was in hospital,” he admitted, “in person, anyway.”  
  
“We’ve just been to see him,” his father informed him. “In person,” he added a bit sharply. They knew about the cameras, and although they appreciated how closely Mycroft monitored their younger son, they didn’t exactly approve of that particular method. _Everyone’s entitled to some privacy,_ was their argument. _Not when they need someone to make sure they’re not needing an ambulance or a good lawyer,_ he had shot back. Mummy had reprimanded him for that one.  
  
“So, what’s he gotten into now?” Mycroft huffed, trying to sound indifferent and put upon.  
  
“That’s what I’d like to know,” his father snapped back.   
  
Mycroft frowned. What had he missed? “Why? What’s happened?” he asked uneasily.  
  
“I don’t know,” his father replied honestly, “and that’s what’s got me worried.”  
  
“So what is all the fuss about?” Mycroft’s supercilious tone was hopefully covering up his concern.  
  
“His shirt was buttoned incorrectly.”  
  
“Oh. I see. I’ll check on him.”  
  
“Oh, here comes Mummy. Must ring off. Let me know.”  
  
Mycroft pressed his lips tightly together as he contacted the surveillance tech on duty. “I need to see what my brother was up to in the last twenty-four hours,” he commanded crisply.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
The government official put his elbows on his desk and rested his head in his hands. What now, brother mine? he groaned.  
  
Because although buttoning a shirt wrong for most people meant absolutely nothing, for Sherlock, it was practically a sign of the apocalypse.  
  
*  
  
“Normal?” John gripped the thin shoulders lightly. “What do you mean?”  
  
And since when did anyone wanting to be ‘normal’ send up flares like a sinking ship?  
  
“I mean I wanted to be… normal. Eat dinner. Watch telly. Get into bed. Sleep.”  
  
“Sherlock, you’re scaring the crap out of me.”  
  
The dark-haired man glared at him. “Isn’t that what you want? What everyone wants? For me to be ‘normal’? Sleep at night, eat… meals?”  
  
John frowned. That was a very good question. He considered his answer carefully. “My love,” he finally replied, “I don’t know about other people, but what _I_ want is for you to be healthy and safe and _happy_. Yes, eating and sleeping on a regular schedule would be better for you, but I sincerely doubt that you’d be _happy_ doing that.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t reply. His face was a study in misery.  
  
“I’m not even sure that it’s _possible_ for you to do that. God knows, I’ve tried. Just seems to make things worse,” the doctor continued. “What brought this on?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head slightly and shrugged.  
  
“Was it… shit, Sherlock. Does this have to do with me and Mary?”  
  
“My head hurts.”  
  
John knew that was Sherlock’s way of saying he didn’t want to discuss it any further. He looked fairly worn out. “Okay. I’m going to get you something. Do you want to lie down for a bit?” His mate nodded. “Take off your jacket and shoes, then, and I’ll be right back.”  
  
He popped into the bathroom for paracetamol and a glass of water. It would do for now. When he returned, the lanky man was sitting on the edge of the bed again, but his jacket was neatly hung, and he was staring at his shoeless feet.  
  
“Nice socks,” the doctor commented.  
  
Sherlock looked up at him, blinking in confusion. And then his face cleared. “You’re teasing me,” he pronounced.  
  
“Absolutely,” John agreed, handing him the medication and water. “Take these and lie down. I’ll pull the curtains, all right?”  
  
“Are you leaving?” He sounded alarmed.  
  
“No. Not right away,” he assured him over his shoulder as he drew the curtains closed. “I thought you could have a kip and then we could get something to eat, all right?”  
  
“What… are you…” Sherlock swallowed the tablets and tried to hand the glass of water back.  
  
“No. Finish that. I’m just going to be in the other room, all right?” Sherlock finished the water and John took back the glass. “Good job. Get some sleep now.” He shut the lights and closed the door part way before creeping quietly down the hallway, pulling his mobile from his pocket.  
  
 _Change of plans,_ he texted.  
  
 _Now what?_ came the reply.  
  
 _Nothing big just going to stay with him a bit then get food_  
  
 _No museum?_  
  
 _Bad day he needs to sleep_  
  
 _Okay. Phone me later. Love you._  
  
 _Love you_  
  
*  
  
Damn. There was a perfect spot just as you arrived at the V&A. She had been hoping to possibly catch him—catch them—off guard.  
  
  
  



	33. Chapter 33

“John,” Sherlock grumbled. John sighed and withdrew the man’s phone from his jacket pocket. If the call was interesting, John would let him know.  
  
“No, this is John.” He listened. “He’s busy at the moment. What do you want?” He listened again, and Sherlock was vaguely alarmed to see his expression change from annoyed to concerned. He put down the beaker he was holding and turned his attention to his friend.  
  
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll tell him. Ten minutes? All right. Thank you for letting us—him know.” He rang off. “Sherlock, that was Mycroft. It’s about your father. He’s in hospital. Passed out in a shop. Mycroft’s car will be here in ten minutes.”  
  
Without a word Sherlock left the kitchen for the bedroom, closing the door behind himself. John looked down the hallway in concern. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to follow him; to knock on the door and ask if he was all right. But now—things were different. It wasn’t their bedroom anymore. It wasn’t their flat anymore. It was just Sherlock’s home. Sherlock’s bedroom. Only his clothes hung in the wardrobe. Only his toothbrush resided by the bathroom basin.  
  
Still, this was a medical emergency and therefore right up his street. Sherlock emerged five minutes later, dressed in a crisp dark blue shirt and black suit. He went into the bathroom and John knew exactly what he was doing in there. How many times had they attempted to share the mirror; the basin? It never went well, and one time John sported quite a black eye for a week when Sherlock’s pointy elbow had caught him on the eye, but it was comfortable and close and homely.  
  
Sherlock emerged, his curls tamed. He walked past John and took his coat from its hook.  
  
“Do you want me to go with you?” John blurted out, realizing that nine minutes had passed and Mycroft was sure to be waiting impatiently in the black car down below any second now. He got no reply. Without a word the dark-haired man exited the flat and ran down the stairs. John rushed to the window and peered at the pavement below.  
  
Yes, there he was, a dark-blue pillar as still as a statue. The black car pulled up. Sherlock opened the door and was swallowed up into its tinted-window darkness. John watched until the car had pulled away and was out of sight.  
  
The doctor reluctantly drew away from the window. He looked around himself at the untidy flat. Books piled everywhere; papers strewn across the floor. The unfinished experiment on the kitchen table. The jack knife—what? The jack knife had apparently been released from its duty holding unpaid bills to the mantel and was now being employed as some sort of giant pin, holding a map of—where was that? —to the wall over the sofa.  
  
Ridiculous man, John thought to himself as he started with the pile of newspapers scattered around Sherlock’s chair.  
  
*  
  
It was a longish drive to the hospital where their father was, and Mycroft watched his brother carefully. He didn’t always do well with extended car rides. At one point he withdrew a bottle of water from the small fridge and pointedly handed it to him. Sherlock glanced at him, then at the bottle, and reluctantly accepted it, but as he sipped, Mycroft was relieved to see that the greenish-grey around his lips was beginning to fade.  
  
“When was the last time you ate?” he asked. “You always feel worse in the car on an empty stomach. Do you want something?”  
  
His baby brother shook his head and went back to staring out the window.  
  
“Very well, then, but if you need to, just tell the driver—”  
  
Sherlock’s hand, raised in an imperative gesture, stopped him. All right, then. He supposed that nagging wasn’t helping the situation.  
  
They sat in silence for a few minutes longer.  
  
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” Mycroft finally ventured. “It wasn’t the last few times.” Sherlock glared at him. Oh, right. He had been away for those episodes, and he was fairly certain that their parents hadn’t filled him in. “It’s usually just one of his medications needing adjusting. The last time he just got dehydrated. It happens with older people.”  
  
The striking eyes refocused on the scene flashing by the window.  
  
They finally arrived. Sherlock exited the car first and surprised his brother by holding the door for him, and then stepped back to allow him to lead the way. Well, maybe not so surprising. Mycroft had been this route before, quite literally, so he struck out, his brother at his heels. They made a striking sight—the taller man in his elegant grey three-piece, with impeccable grooming and an unlikely umbrella on one arm, and the slightly shorter man even more arresting in appearance—pale and stern, with flashing eyes and unruly dark curls and a dramatic long coat that acted more like a cape.  
  
Their appearance was so unlikely, in fact, that at first the nurse at the desk just blinked as Mycroft briskly requested the whereabouts of Mr Paul Holmes. She gathered herself quickly as he bristled, though, and directed them down several busy hallways.  
  
*  
  
John had gotten the newspapers under control and was nearly done with the books when his mobile chirped at him. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced down at it, expecting to see either Sherlock’s or possibly Mycroft’s name.  
  
It was Mary.  
  
Oh, SHIT.  
  
He had completely forgotten. They were supposed to have dinner with the neighbours. Mary had told him about it three days earlier and he had nodded his head in acceptance. He wasn’t terribly eager, but it wouldn’t hurt, he figured.  
  
Until now. He was looking at the time. Nope. No way in hell was he going to be able to make it on time, even if he left that very second. Shit.  
  
He had no idea until that minute that it was possible to swipe one’s finger across a mobile screen guiltily.  
  
“I am so sorry,” he managed right away, his throat tight.  
  
“Where are you?” Short. Clipped. Oh, she was ticked, all right.  
  
“Erm…”  
  
“Don’t tell me. No need to tell me. You’re in Baker Street with him, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’m in the flat, yeah. But I’m not with him.” He explained rapidly what had occurred.  
  
“For fuck’s sake, John!” she shouted. He winced. “I don’t get it. You’re not even _with_ him? So why aren’t you home?”  
  
He added how he had lost track of time whilst tidying up. God, it sounded lame.  
  
“So tidying up that tip of a flat for your ‘mate’ is more important than coming home to me and having dinner with our friends? What’s gotten into you?”  
  
“Habit?” he ventured. Oh, so very lame. He would need to start using his cane again at this rate.  
  
“Two years, John. You had TWO YEARS to break that habit.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” He knew that saying anything else at this point was moot.  
  
“You sure as hell better be.” He could picture her scowling at him.  
  
“I’ll come home now,” he offered.  
  
“No. Don’t bother. I’m going next door on my own. You can bloody well finish tidying up that fucking flat, and then you can make yourself comfortable in your old bed, because you do not DARE come home tonight.”  
  
“Mary—”  
  
She had rung off.  
  
Fuck.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, boys. I’m glad you’re here.”  
  
“Of course, Mummy.” Mycroft smiled a bit insincerely at the older woman, who was seated in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. It wasn’t his feeling that was insincere; he was just a bit unaccustomed to smiling in any other way.  
  
“They’ve taken him off for some other test,” she reported, indicating the empty bed. “They keep coming up with new ones to inflict on him. I think they might run a pregnancy test next.”  
  
“So how is he?”  
  
“He’s fine, now. Scared me to death in the shop, mind you. He was getting some biscuits off a bottom shelf. He stood up and then just sort of crumbled. Fortunately, his knees went first, so he just sort of folded down and then tipped over. I’m so grateful there was a young lady right there who seemed to know what to do. I was petrified.”  
  
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Mycroft replied, more sincerely.  
  
“Well, he’s fine now—busy flirting with the nurses.” She rolled her eyes, but Mycroft knew she was still fairly frightened about it all.  
  
“I’m glad. It’s probably nothing too serious.”  
  
“Probably not. Maybe you can get them to let him go home soon?”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
He strode out of the cubicle.  
  
“Hello, ‘Lock,” she said softly to her younger son. He looked at her keenly. “I’m glad you came.” In response, he began glancing around. “Don’t you dare take anything,” she warned. “I’m keeping an eye on you. I always know.”  
  
He pouted and leaned against a wall to wait.  
  
*  
  
He had finished with the books and was tackling the litter of papers that flowed from heaps on the desk to the floor. Familiarity with the task gave him speed, and he rapidly sorted it all into piles: bills, notes from experiments, items clipped from newspapers and magazines (there were a great number of ads for hair colour, he noted with some amusement), printed emails from potential clients, an extraordinary number of maps of all sorts, several takeaway menus, a napkin with a phone number scrawled on it—and not in Sherlock’s handwriting—and the usual odd assortment. Sherlock’s interests were varied and his attention span brief at best.  
  
*  
  
“No, it’s nothing to be overly alarmed about. Your father’s blood pressure medication is a bit too strong, and he stood up too quickly—he was bending down to get something off a bottom shelf in the shop.” The doctor, who looked too young to be able to drive, let alone practice medicine, explained.  
  
“So are you adjusting it?” Mycroft demanded.  
  
“He’ll have to see his regular doctor.”  
  
“Can he be released now?”  
  
“Yes. I’ll have the paperwork prepared.”  
  
*  
  
John reached under Sherlock’s chair and pulled everything out. His hand brushed across the cover of the book on the top of the stack. “Oh, Tigger,” he murmured.  
  
*  
  
“Thank you so much for the ride,” Mr Holmes said to his older son as the driver helped him out of the car. Mrs Holmes was already out and fishing for her house key.  
  
“You’ll not have any groceries,” Mycroft pointed out. “I’ll have some delivered.”  
  
“Oh, how thoughtful! Yes, and please make sure there’s eggs.”  
  
“Of course. Do you want us to come in?”  
  
“Actually, no. I know you’ve come a long way for not much of anything, but I’d like to get Dad comfortable and have some time to ourselves.”  
  
Mycroft nodded understandingly (and with some relief). “Of course. Rest up, both of you, and please let me know about the appointment with the cardiologist.”  
  
She had to stand on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He stood still and allowed her.  
  
“And you…” she called to her younger son with a frown. “You’re too thin. You need feeding up.” Oh, the eye roll. She smiled at this. “Oh, you are a ray of sunshine. Say goodbye to your father.”  
  
“Father,” Mycroft said formally, holding out his hand.   
  
Mr Holmes took it good-naturedly. “Oh, don’t go gushing now,” he teased. “Now, let us go in. I’m craving a cup of your mum’s tea. Bye, Sherlock.” He waved casually at the still figure standing on the far side of the car, watching.  
  
The brothers slid into the car simultaneously, and the driver headed out as soon as he saw that the elder Holmeses were safely inside their house. “You’ll be all right?” Mycroft asked mildly. “Let the driver know—”  
  
The Hand.  
  
They spent the rest of the trip in silence.  
  
*  
  
Mycroft watched as his brother gracefully exited the car and without a backward glance entered 221. He sighed.  
  
“Sir?” the driver said hesitantly.  
  
“Office,” he commanded. As the car pulled out into traffic, he glanced back at the building. There was a warm light coming from the first floor windows.  
  
He hoped Sherlock would find some comfort in it.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock? Is that you?” John called from the kitchen. He was examining the contents of the fridge, peering suspiciously at a container of mayonnaise. He was half expecting it to peer back. Except for the sound of the door closing, there was silence. He made his way out into the sitting room. Sherlock was hanging up his coat. “So, how is he?” the doctor asked eagerly. The taller man shrugged, looking dazedly around the flat. “Yeah, I cleaned. Didn’t have anything better to do. You could have at least sent a text.”  
  
Sherlock began to examine the tidy piles of papers on the desk. John was fairly sure the pile that slid to the floor was deliberate. He considered things for a minute while Sherlock quite pointedly ignored him. “Okay,” he finally sighed. “I’m going to make some dinner. Not much to work with, but I think I can come up with something.”  
  
“Don’t make eggs,” Sherlock startled him by interjecting.  
  
“Why… no. Never mind. All right. I will not make eggs.”  
  
*  
  
“By the way…”  
  
“Your bed is made up,” the detective interrupted. He had taken only a few bites of the cheddar-and-bacon sandwich John had put together (and had cut off his crusts and cut into triangles and had given him only half) and was now pulling the remaining bits apart, dropping pieces onto both his small plate and the table.  
  
“How did you… never mind. Yes. I’m staying.”  
  
…  
  
“Got into a bit of a row with Mary.”  
  
…  
  
“Any plans for tomorrow?”  
  
…  
  
“Stop playing with that. If you’re not going to have any more, put your plate in the sink.”  
  
…  
  
“It’s all right to be upset about it. It’s upsetting when parents are ill.”  
  
…  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Come on.” John had watched in dismay as his mate had pushed away from the table (leaving his mess on it, of course) and walked over to the window. He was staring out at the now-dark street.  
  
So John crept up behind him and with a sigh, wrapped his arms around the thin figure.  
  
And he rocked him.  
  
*  
  
“You’ll be all right on your own?” he asked for the third time.  
  
“Yes. I’ve said yes. Go to bed.” Sherlock waved impatiently at him with one hand, the other holding his place in his book.  
  
“You will be getting into bed yourself at some point?”  
  
Sherlock glared at him. John snorted in amusement and relief. This was the most normal (for him) that Sherlock had been in… well… years.  
  
Things had turned the corner when Mrs Hudson had popped up with some sort of squishy, oozy, overly-sweet and sticky pudding. With that as bait, she and John had enticed him away from the window, and once presented with a spoon, he readily sat and consumed two helpings, plus half of John’s (which John would have protested against except that it was far too sweet for him and he would have had to force himself to finish it and he didn’t like to hurt their landlady’s feelings and to be honest he sort of fed it to Sherlock, making Mrs Hudson giggle a bit behind her hand).  
  
Now, he headed up the stairs. He was pleasantly surprised to see that some of the storage clutter that had landed in his room—his old room—had been tidied; boxes pushed against the walls and—this was a surprise—there was new bedding and a very nice duvet.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as the doctor trudged up the stairs. He hoped the room was warm enough—John hated being cold. That was something Sherlock missed—making sure that John was warm. Extra blankets and the bed closer to the heater when they travelled and lighting the fire when it was damp.  
  
He missed the other ways that he helped warm up John, as well.  
  
*  
  
John had brought a book upstairs with him and, propping himself up, read for a bit. It gave him a moment of consternation—an odd juxtaposition of old and new.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock surprised himself by doing what he had been told. Not very long after John headed up (Sherlock knew that he would fall asleep reading; he would wake in the middle of the night and drop the book on the floor as he rolled over to turn out the light) he rather unexpectedly found himself in the bathroom, going through his bedtime routine. How had that happened?  
  
Never mind. He would ask John in the morning.  
  
*  
  
He thought he would reach the end of the chapt…  
  
*  
  
The jeans were black; tight. He was aware that they, plus the equally-tight shirt he had selected (a fantastic aubergine), made him attractive. Well, more attractive. Sherlock Holmes might have been baffled by human nature, but he was certainly fine with making it work for him.  
  
Where was he? Some hotel room. They all looked the same. Quite literally—he had no idea even what part of the world he was in. It didn’t matter. He turned toward what had to be the bathroom door. There was someone in it.  
  
The door opened. Oh, how lovely. It was John.  
  
John smiled at him and that was even lovelier. John smiled quite a bit—well, sometimes—and he seemed to have an endless supply of different smiles for different occasions. It was really quite fascinating. There were polite smiles and baffled smiles and sweet smiles and dangerous smiles (he liked those even when they ended up with him being punched in the face) and sad smiles and genuine smiles that sometimes ended in giggles and sometimes in very, very lovely…  
  
Oh, right. Not anymore.  
  
They didn’t do that anymore.  
  
But apparently yes they did, because John was smiling that very special, very naughty smile that he reserved for Sherlock when he was randy and it always got Sherlock quite excited as well. He strode across the banal carpet, his arms wide, and Sherlock melted into them.  
  
Oh, no. He didn’t want warm, affectionate hugs right then—not his John. Right then his doctor wanted something quite different and he was more than happy to provide it. The older man pulled away and with a knowing look reached up to begin to unbutton his tight shirt.  
  
*  
  
It was quiet, wherever he was. Some… was it a flat? He glanced out the window—oh, he was in the kitchen, it seemed—and there was a garden. A street. A car. So, a bungalow, probably. He wasn’t sure where.  
  
He wandered from the kitchen—when had he gotten tea towels decorated with cats? —into the sitting room. Interesting. More cats—cushions and pictures and little figurines.  
  
*  
  
Oh, yes, please, he nodded in approval. That would be quite acceptable.  
  
So why was John pausing? Frowning? What was wrong? He looked down at himself.  
  
Oh.  
  
His shirt—his fabulous, too-tight aubergine shirt that usually made John lick his lips as his eyes grew wide—was buttoned wrong.  
  
Oh.  
  
*  
  
The door opened. Oh, there was Mary. How nice. What was she carrying? He moved quickly to help her.  
  
*  
  
John pressed a reassuring hand to his face and discarded his shirt before starting on his jeans.  
  
They slid down his legs.  
  
He wasn’t wearing any pants.  
  
*  
  
It was a carton of some sort, open at the top. She beamed at him and tipped it slightly so he could see what was inside.  
  
It was kittens.  
  
*  
  
No shirt and no jeans and no pants and that was fine because he was with John. He turned and sprawled across the bed, trying to ignore the feel of the rough, cheap duvet underneath him.  
  
*  
  
He beamed back and took the box. There were four kittens—two with black fur and white bibs, one sort of mottled one, and one a sleek silvery grey.  
  
*  
  
He felt himself being spun onto his back. The rough, cheap duvet felt dreadful against his bare skin as he slid across it.  
  
Odd.  
  
The hands on him were rough… and large.  
  
Not John’s.  
  
The face in front of him now was not John’s, either.  
  
*  
  
He put the box gently onto the floor and watched as the kittens tumbled out. They opened their tiny mouths and squeaked as they began to explore. They would need dishes, and kitten food, and a litter tray. They would need toys. String. That seemed quite nice—the idea of playing with them. Toying with them.  
  
*  
  
Why… why was _he_ there? Of all people?  
  
He thought he had seen the last of Victor Trevor years and years ago.  
  
Damn. He had forgotten how much those beefy hands could hurt; rough and clumsy and pinching in the worst places.  
  
*  
  
Mary joined him on the floor. She scooped up the mottled kitty and cuddled it under her chin. It purred.  
  
*  
  
No, Victor. Don’t. I don’t want to. I don’t like it that way.  
  
*  
  
Mary leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. It made him feel warm and calm from his head to his feet.  
  
*  
  
I said no. No. NO!  
  
*  
  
Do you want to go to bed?  
  
Yes.  
  
*  
  
No, Victor! No… what?  
  
It wasn’t Victor. How could he have made such a terrible mistake?  
  
*  
  
The bed was warm and the sheets were soft.  
  
*  
  
It was… it was the man. The man…. who was he? Why did he know him?  
  
And what the hell was he—  
  
NO!  
  
*  
  
Mary, now in a soft nightgown that floated around her, opened her arms wide and welcomed him in.  
  
*  
  
NO NO NO DON’T DON’T DON’T  
  
But the hands were too strong and they flipped him over so his face was pressed against the cheap duvet and his hands were pinned behind his back and he couldn’t get any leverage.  
  
*  
  
He slid into the bed and into her arms and now the kisses weren’t soft and sweet kitten kisses but deep and passionate and he felt himself growing—eager.  
  
*  
  
How? How had that happened? He was still on the bed, his face pressed into the coarse duvet, choking him, but now the rough hands; the hated face—they were in front of him. What was that? A sheet? How had he gotten a sheet—oh, the mattress was now somehow bare beneath him but it was just as coarse and rough against his skin and what was happening to his own hands now oh God now don’t please don’t what are you doing don’t do that those sheets are so horrid and   
  
*  
  
Oh, John she murmured as she kissed him and he kissed her and somehow her nightgown was off now and his clothing was off and they could press bare skin together  
  
*  
  
Was it worse to shut his eyes or to keep them open?  
  
*  
  
Was it better to shut his eyes or to keep them open?  
  
*  
  
The sheets were rough as they were wrapped around his wrists—the correct way, creating a figure 8 so he couldn’t wriggle free—and the horrid face was directly in front of him and it was laughing and it made him feel like he was going to be sick and then there was a touch  
  
Oh god please no  
  
And a corner of a pillowcase was shoved roughly into his mouth and down his throat until he choked and coughed and gagged but couldn’t cry out  
  
Because there was a touch  
  
Behind him  
  
On his inner thigh  
  
it burned  
  
*  
  
Oh god yes please this feels fantastic so warm and tight and wet and  
  
and  
  
there  
  
*  
  
Oh god no please this feels awful so hot and tight and dry and  
  
and  
  
screaming  
  
*  
  
John laughed aloud as he came and Mary smiled and held him close  
  
*  
  
Burning  
  
Burning everywhere  
  
Skin against rough fabric burned and wrists wrapped tightly burned and   
  
it burned and it and burned  
  
  
  
and  
  
  
  
no no no no  
  
  
  
it burns  
  
  
  
please stop  
  
*  
  
The book slid off John’s bed as he rolled over and settled into a deeper sleep, a satisfied smile on his face.  
  
THUD  
  
The sound of the book falling to the floor above woke him, and he buried his face, twisted with anguish, in his pillow.  
  
*  
  
In the morning, John was chipper and made eggs. He put a small plate with one egg and one piece of toast, cut into soldiers, in front of Sherlock, who looked dreadful. John tried to jolly him along with small talk but began to grow concerned when the younger man wouldn’t make eye contact.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he finally asked, reaching to place his hand over the trembling one that seemed to be having trouble managing the silverware—a hand that was jerked back as if the doctor had splashed acid on it instead.  
  
“Go home, John,” his mate replied sadly, pushing himself away from his barely-touched food and stumbling back into the bedroom. “Leave me alone.”  
  
  
  



	34. Chapter 34

“They’re very nice,” Mary admitted grudgingly as she accepted the bouquet of roses from John.  
  
“I’m really, really sorry about last night,” he said again.  
  
“I know,” she sighed. “I’m sorry I got so angry. I suppose I have to get used to it—you having him back in your life.”  
  
“No. It’s perfectly fair. When we were… before… I didn’t have anything else going on. In my own life, I mean. I suppose he just got used to having access to me 24/7. Things are different now—for both of us. He’s going to have to adjust. He can’t expect everything to be the same as it was two years ago.”  
  
“But I think that he does,” Mary pointed out, digging for a vase in a cupboard.  
  
“Who knows? His brain is still pretty scrambled. He doesn’t show it on the surface, but he’s not the same man.” John took the wrapper off the bouquet.  
  
“So if he’s not the same and you’re not the same, you _both_ are going to have to make adjustments. Not just him.”  
  
There was silence for a bit as she filled the vase with water and, as he handed her each of the roses, arranged them in it.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he finally replied.  
  
“About making adjustments?” She tipped her head and examined her handiwork.  
  
“About making some changes.” He put the wrapper in the bin.  
  
“Such as?” She picked up the vase, considering where to place it.  
  
“How attached are you to the name Morstan?”  
  
John caught the vase.  
  
*  
  
 _I thought he caught me out at first,_ she texted. _About the name_  
  
 _That would be unfortunate._  
  
 _He won’t find out_  
  
 _He better not. Are you going to go through with it?_  
  
 _Sure. Why not? The closer I get to him the closer I get to the target._  
  
 _I should send you a little prezzie. Congrats on your engagement_  
  
Mary laughed. Sometimes he could be a complete prick, but sometimes he was really quite funny.  
  



	35. Chapter 35

The group—mostly staff from Bart’s and The Yard--enthusiastically toasted their newly-engaged mate. Several times. Their enthusiasm was admirable and, as the number of toasts piled up, rather loud. John sat at a sticky table, enjoying the flow of drinks being purchased for him. Why not? It had been ages since he’d gotten properly pissed, and if there was any excuse to do so, surely getting engaged was it.  
  
He grinned at Greg, who slid into a chair beside him. John could tell by his eyes that he was at least two drinks ahead. He would feel absolutely horrid in the morning. “Water is the key,” he intoned wisely.  
  
“What?” Greg stared at him in puzzlement, then laughed. “You’re fucking hammered.”  
  
“’m all right,” John protested muzzily.  
  
“He’s pissed, too—that’s a surprise.” The DI nodded toward a table in the corner of the pub. Sherlock sat at it alone. He was scanning the crowd, but he kept frowning and tipping his head, as if he wasn’t getting a clear picture. He probably wasn’t. Sherlock had never been much of a drinker, but he had been matching John drink for drink. “That is not going to end well,” Greg added.  
  
John glanced over. “No, it’s not. ‘s all right. I’ve got him.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have to take care of him tonight. You’re the… uh… guest of honour.”  
  
“Who else is going to do it? Unless you want him,” John commented slyly.  
  
“Me? Oh, God, no. Been there; done that. My car was never quite the same.”  
  
“You’re not driving tonight,” John reminded him, nodding at the half-empty glass in front of the silver-haired man.  
  
“Damn right I’m not,” he agreed heartily, downing the rest of his beer in three large gulps. “Still not taking him home.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” John remarked quietly, suddenly seeming quite a bit more sober. “I like taking him home.”  
  
Greg blinked.  
  
*  
  
“Come on. Two more steps,” he encouraged, holding on to six feet of wobbly consulting detective.  
  
“Do you know… how many… steps there are?” Sherlock asked rather slowly, apparently needing a great deal of his massive intellect to navigate those last two steps.  
  
“Seventeen. Okay. Almost there.”  
  
Neither one of them had noticed their landlady, who had crept out to her vestibule to watch and giggle. She did love her boys and was thrilled that they had apparently had a fun night out.  
  
A few minutes later, they were both slumped into their respective chairs. John giggled as Sherlock crossed his legs, waving his hand around expansively as he explained which of the Yarders had just changed banks and which had a gambling problem. “It’s not really your business,” he protested mildly.  
  
Sherlock considered this for a moment before shaking his head. “If i’s not my business, they shouldn’t be so obvious,” he declared. He waved his hand again, sending John into another set of giggles. “What?” he demanded petulantly. He followed John’s eyes to his hand and frowned at it as if he had never seen it there before and was puzzled at its presence.  
  
“You turn into a regular queen when you drink,” John admitted, smiling at him as if he thought this was the best thing in the world.  
  
“What does that mean?” Sherlock scowled at him.  
  
“Look at you,” John encouraged, sweeping his own hand up and down. “Seriously. I mean, I know some guys can be gay, but you’re… well. Gayier.”  
  
Sherlock snorted with laughter. “You made up a word!” he chortled.  
  
“It’s a word!” John protested. “Adjective.” He nodded vigorously at his own declaration.  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“Sure. Do we have any Scotch?”  
  
Sherlock waved his hand in the general direction of the kitchen. Its movement distracted him, and he peered at it in concern.  
  
“What’s wrong?” John asked, noticing the change.  
  
“Looks different,” he admitted. “Not sure why.”  
  
“’s not shaking,” John explained, pushing himself out of the chair and turning rather lopsidedly toward the kitchen.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock stared at his hand, still suspended in the air, then looked at the other one.  
  
“Your hands. They shake a lot. Since you… got back. Not all the time, but when you’re tired.” John had discovered the Scotch and was trying to find two clean glasses. “You still have no idea where to put anything, do you?” he commented offhandedly, finally finding two mismatched glasses.  
  
“Do they?” Sherlock put both hands out in front of himself. “They’re not now.”  
  
“’Cause you’re relaxed,” John explained, pouring an alarming amount of Scotch into each glass.  
  
“Oh. Is that a doctor thing?” He put his hands deliberately on the arms of the chair.  
  
“Yup. Here.” He handed a glass to his mate and carefully re-seated himself. No spills—he was pretty impressed with himself.  
  
“You, John Watson, are an escellent doctor.”  
  
“Well, thank you. You don’t say that often,” John smiled.  
  
“I don’t say it often enough,” his mate agreed. “You really care about people (he shuddered the slightest bit). I would make a terrible doctor.”  
  
“You’re a good scientist. Excellent observer. You’d make a good diagnos-nos-tician.”  
  
“Hmm. Exotic diseases would be interesting. But that’s it. It’s the diseases I’d find interesting—not the patients.”  
  
“People need both—doctors who care about their patients and doctors who do research. Nothing wrong with that.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock took a sip of his Scotch.  
  
“What else then? What would you be doing if you hadn’t become a consulting detective? Other than criminal mastermind.”  
  
“Something with chemistry, I imagine. Research lab?”  
  
“I tell you what,” John mused. “I have a list of jobs you would be _rubbish_ at.”  
  
“Mycroft has a file.”  
  
“P.E. teacher,” John offered.  
  
“I could teach fencing. Self-defence. How to climb fences whilst handcuffed to an ex-army captain.”  
  
John cracked up, then thought a bit more. “Gardener?” he postulated. “I can’t see you doing that.”   
  
“I could grow poisonous plants.” They both burst out laughing, John in his high-pitched giggle and Sherlock in his low rumble.  
  
“Umm. Let’s see. You’d be a crap therapist.”  
  
“I cured you of your psychosomatic limp in less than forty-eight hours.”  
  
“Mmm. True. Although your methods were a bit… un-something. Un-legal? Oh, wait. Here’s one that would never, _ever_ work.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Bartender.”  
  
“Oh, that would be awful,” Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly. “All those people—and wanting to talk about their problems…” he shuddered.  
  
“Sport blaring at you all the time from the telly.”  
  
“Flirting female customers.”  
  
They both shook their heads at the horror of it all.  
  
“What about you?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully, swirling the liquid in his glass, apparently enjoying the tremor-free hand that held it.  
  
“What about me?”  
  
“What if you weren’t a doctor?”  
  
“God, Sherlock. I don’t know. That’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.”  
  
“But you were a good captain. In the army. You’re very good at giving commands.”  
  
“You’re very good at taking them,” John mused.  
  
They both considered this for a bit.  
  
*  
  
“You like it when I give you commands,” John finally added. “I mean… you used to like it…” Then, realising what he had said, he clamped his mouth shut.  
  
Sherlock saved him. “Yes. I do. I like it when you tell me what to do, John,” he said softly.  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“Very much.”  
  
They looked at each other. “How, exactly, do you like it?” John finally asked. “What does it do to you?”  
  
“Do?”  
  
John leaned forward earnestly—a bit too earnestly. He had to reach out and lay a hand on Sherlock’s knee to keep himself upright. “’s all right. I don’t mind,” he mumbled, smiling.  
  
“Any time,” Sherlock murmured back.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question,” the doctor pursued, not removing his hand. “How does it make you feel when I command you?”  
  
“It makes me want to obey you—to do anything that you want me to do,” Sherlock responded huskily. He glanced down at the hand on his knee.  
  
“Anything?”  
  
“Absolutely anything.”  
  
“Oh, shit, Sherlock. I wish you hadn’t said that.”  
  
“Why?” His voice was nearly a whisper.  
  
“Because right now I would like to command you to do some things, and I really, really hope that you do them.”  
  
“Oh?” Sherlock tried to sound flippant, but his voice caught and his eyes were a dead giveaway.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Such as…” And then he couldn’t stand it one second more. Not the games they’d been playing—being just mates. Being civil.  
  
Being clothed.  
  
His voice was low and insistent, and his hand, still on Sherlock’s knee, began to grip it tightly. “Such as: Put down your drink.”  
  
Sherlock put down his drink.  
  
“Stand up.”  
  
He stood up. John stood up as well.  
  
“Come over here.”  
  
Sherlock took the one step needed to bring him into John’s waiting arms.  
  
“Kiss me.”  
  
There was a long hesitation. Sherlock and John stared at each other. The taller man opened his mouth to object.  
  
“No,” John interjected. “I said kiss me and I meant it. NOW.”  
  
Sherlock kissed him.  
  
*  
  
“Fuck, Sherlock,” John murmured, coming up for air.  
  
“John, this isn’t…” the younger man tried to protest whilst simultaneously tasting as much delectable tanned skin as he could reach.  
  
“Shut up and keep kissing me,” John commanded.   
  
Sherlock shut up and kept kissing him.  
  
*  
  
“Careful,” he murmured, backing the thin man up until his bum hit the desk. “Sit,” he commanded, and Sherlock perched himself on in, automatically spreading his legs slightly to accommodate John. They kept kissing.  
  
“God, I’ve missed this,” John breathed, nuzzling his nose into the space beneath Sherlock’s right ear. “I still can’t really believe you’re real.” The taller man didn’t reply except to run his hand through the short hair and pull John closer.  
  
Their legs were now intertwined and John unabashedly leaned his hips forward, rubbing himself against the thin leg. He reached down and quickly found what he was looking for. Sherlock moaned and pressed himself into the hand.  
  
It felt glorious.  
  
“God, I have fucking wanted you all night,” John whispered, pressing urgently with his palm. “I nearly dragged you into the gents.”  
  
“Goodness, doctor. That would have made for an interesting evening,” he chuckled.  
  
“But I don’t have to hide it now, do I?” John continued, grinding himself on the thin thigh while applying equal pressure with his hand. Sherlock gasped. “Right now,” he continued, his voice becoming breathy, “right now… fuck. No more talking. Just let me…” He dropped to his knees while Sherlock ripped open his own flies. “Let me…” he whispered. He reached out and slid his hand into the opening of the dark fabric. “Oh. Silk. Nice,” he breathed against the straining pants.  
  
“Please…” Sherlock panted.  
  
John licked his lips as he carefully worked Sherlock’s gloriously hard cock from the black silk pants. It felt amazing—that incredible, perplexing, delightful mixture of hard and soft. He stroked it lovingly and Sherlock moaned quietly. Why was it so different from stroking his own?  
  
He leaned forward and breathed on the tip. “Ah,” Sherlock exhaled, his eyes shutting. God, he even smelled glorious—that smoke and peppermint and expensive body wash and whatever else it was that made him _Sherlock_ was so much more concentrated there, and over it all was a fantastic musk so intense John felt as if he could taste it…  
  
But of course he could actually— _taste_ it.  
  
The tip of his tongue swirled over the velvety-soft mauve skin while he continued to stroke. Sherlock groaned and shifted, thrusting himself slightly forward. “Oh, yeah?” John smiled, pausing. “That feels good, huh?”  
  
“Stop teasing.”  
  
John settled his mouth around the head, flicking it with his tongue as he tightened his grip on the shaft. Nothing had ever smelled or tasted as good to him.  
  
“Oh, God. Please, John.” A lovely flush was growing across his pale cheeks.  
  
For a split second, John considered asking “Please, what?” But it was long past time for teasing and far, far past time for talking. He had much better things to do with his mouth…  
  
*  
  
“John?”  
  
“Mmmph?”  
  
“You fell asleep. Rude. Rude!” Sherlock shook his finger at him and John giggled.  
  
“If anyone knows rude, it’s you,” he pointed out.  
  
Sherlock nodded in agreement.  
  
And then he stopped.  
  
And even after two years John knew that look and even as pissed as he was his reflexes kicked in and he got Sherlock as far as the kitchen sink before Sherlock wasted the rather nice Scotch.  
  
It got a bit muzzy after that—well, John did. Sherlock was already well and away and for some reason horribly embarrassed about being sick even though John reassured him several times that it was fine and it happened and it wasn’t his fault that he had a tetchy stomach and maybe it was mixing the beer and…  
  
John got him to the toilet that time.  
  
*  
  
“Oh,” John sighed heartily. He had finally tucked Sherlock in— “time for bed and a bucket for you, my love”—and he hadn’t bothered to try changing his clothes because he was knackered and honestly still rather pissed himself and the idea of unwinding Sherlock from his fussy shirt and trousers and all that…  
  
Very, very briefly, John wondered if he was indeed wearing black silk pants under them.  
  
No.  
  
Stop.  
  
He pulled off his own jumper and slid into bed beside Sherlock and snuggled up behind him and murmured assurances and the location of the bucket and not once did it occur to him to phone or text his fiancée. Mary.  
  
It never once occurred to him that he didn’t belong there anymore.  
  



	36. Chapter 36

“Oh, looks like someone had a good time last night,” Mary chuckled as John slunk in the door and, without removing his coat, sat on the sofa and put his head in his hands. “Do you want some water?”  
  
“Please,” he mumbled. “And something for my head.”  
  
“Of course, my love.” She fetched paracetamol tablets and a glass of water and brought them to the sitting room. He was struggling with his coat. “How was Greg this morning?” she asked.  
  
“How should I know?” He finally untangled himself from his sleeve and dropped the coat on the floor.  
  
She frowned down at him. “Was he still in bed when you left?”  
  
“I didn’t stay at Greg’s. I got the short straw and ended up taking Sherlock home; stayed there.”  
  
The water sloshed out of the glass when she slammed it to the coffee table, and he winced when she slammed the bedroom door.  
  
*  
  
_How are you?_  
  
_I’ll live. I think. You? SH_  
  
_Serioulsy horrid mary’s angry_  
  
_Why? I thought she approved of your outing. SH_  
  
_Because I stayed over with you_  
  
_Oh. Sorry about that. SH_  
  
_Not your prlblem fault_  
  
_The backs of my eyeballs hurt. SH_  
  
_Git. Drink some water and take some tabletse_  
  
*  
  
_You alive?_  
  
_Barely. How late did you stay afger we left ?_  
  
_Hour? How was he_  
  
_Sick_  
  
_Ugh sorry_  
  
_Used to it—got to go sppsed eto be working_  
  
*  
  
“I warned you,” Molly pointed out, not unsympathetically.  
  
“I know,” he sighed. “I just wanted to…”  
  
“Wanted to what?” She frowned and adjusted a glove.  
  
“I have no idea.”  
  
She looked closely at him. “Fit in? Be ‘one of the boys’ for an evening? Be John’s friend? Be _normal_?”  
  
“Won’t be trying that again.”  
  
*  
  
“You know it won’t alter anything, right? You and Mary getting married? We’ll still be doing all this.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“If you were worried.”  
  
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”  
  
“The thing about Mary is that you think she completely changed everything. But she didn’t change—”  
  
“Sherlock! There!”  
  
John pointed at the woman they had been tailing as she exited the boutique, and without another word they both rose from the bench on which they had been sitting and began to casually follow her down the pavement.  
  
  
  



	37. Chapter 37

“What are you looking for?” the doctor inquired.   
  
Sherlock, who had been rummaging around in the fridge, straightened up “Ah,” he responded. He withdrew a jar with something John didn’t care to identify in it from the back and placed it carefully on the table. Then he reached into one of the deep pockets of the Belstaff and took out a plastic bag containing…  
  
“Sherlock! God! Is that a rat?” John, who had been leaning against the counter, pulled himself away and took two steps towards the door.  
  
“Mmm. Yes. Picked it up while you were bickering with… whatever that clot’s name was.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I need to see if it’s been ingesting the same thing as this one—” he indicated the jar which, John had just realised, held another rat, floating in some fluid.  
  
John ran his hand down his face. “How long has that thing been in the fridge?”  
  
“What’s today?”  
  
“Monday.”  
  
“And when were we at the last crime scene?”  
  
“Saturday… it’s been there since SATURDAY? Sherlock, we eat out of that fridge! I put leftovers in there!”  
  
“They’re sealed,” Sherlock replied disinterestedly. He was removing his coat and suit jacket, apparently in preparation for dissecting the rodents.  
  
“Not the point.”  
  
“So what is the point?” the taller man groaned. “The jar was sealed. The food was sealed. It’s not like it died of something contagious.”  
  
“Oh, good. That makes it so much better.” John rolled his eyes.  
  
“And it probably has very little of the poison in it.”  
  
“Poison. You _are_ joking. Are you telling me that you put a poisoned rat in with our dinner?”  
  
“I don’t know if it’s been poisoned. That’s the whole point.” He rolled up his sleeves. “If it has, and if both rats have been poisoned by the same thing, it links the shipment in the warehouse with the one to that boutique.”  
  
“Oh.” Despite himself, John began looking rather intently at the newly-dead rat. “Is that… are we looking for a corrosive or what?”  
  
“Dissecting tray?” the detective asked dryly, handing one to him.  
  
“Don’t mind if I do,” John admitted, digging into the drawer where they kept the gloves.  
  
*  
  
“So the boutique’s chief buyer was importing knock-off bags—which cost a fraction of what the actual products did--and pocketing the difference?” John, who had somehow gotten the job of cleaning up after they were done with the rats, asked as soon as Sherlock had ended his call to The Yard.  
  
“And getting a commission on the fake bags she sold in the shop,” the detective pointed out. “She only tipped her hand when the shop owner tried to change an order with the legitimate manufacturer and discovered that no orders had ever been placed with them.”  
  
“Did she want to get rid of her by poisoning her?”  
  
“Oh, no! That was just an unfortunate side effect. Turns out the knock-off bags were emitting some positively horrid fumes.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad no one I know buys those brand-name things just for the sake of the label.”  
  
Sherlock smiled at him, reaching for the triple-sealed bags containing the dissected rodents, their respective organs neatly packaged and labelled for transport to…  
  
“Sherlock? Are you all right?” John frowned. When he had reached across the table, he had winced. John was sure of it.  
  
“Fine. Put these back in the fridge. They don’t need them at the lab until tomorrow.”  
  
“Christ, Sherlock! You’re bleeding! Let me take a look.”   
  
“It’s not bad. No need to go all ‘doctor’ on me. I suppose I got a few scratches when I was having that rather heated discussion with the warehouse manager. He was an idiot—insisting there were no rats there.”  
  
“Heated… Sherlock, you were dragged over a smashed-up shipping crate. At the very least there must be a dozen splinters in your side.”  
  
“Not terribly concerned about a few splinters, Doctor,” he spat back.  
  
“Oh, shit, Sherlock. Does it always have to be like this?” John demanded in exasperation. “Can’t—for once—you just do as I say without us fighting about it?”  
  
Sherlock, who had been moving things around in the fridge, making space for the bagged specimens, straightened up and glared at him. “I’m being perfectly serious. I do not want you looking at it. It’s fine. I’ll take a shower and clean it myself, all right? After you leave.”  
  
“How are you going to clean it properly? It wraps around to your back,” John pointed out.  
  
“Long arms?”  
  
“You can be such a dickhead sometimes,” his companion muttered, washing his hands. “Take off your shirt and let me clean it properly.”  
  
“I said NO!” Sherlock roared, slamming the refrigerator shut.  
  
“What the fuck’s gotten into you?” John demanded, slamming his hand on the table. “You’re begging for a nasty infection. Why can’t you just let me take care of it? What is the problem?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t reply. Head down, he tried walking around the far side of the table, but John moved quickly around it and blocked his path. His expression had changed from angry to concerned. “Hey,” he said more softly. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s cheek gently. “What’s the matter?”  
  
“I just don’t want you prodding at me.”  
  
“Why not? It’s not like I’ve never done it before.”  
  
…  
  
“You of all people know better than to leave an injury like that unattended. I need to clean it properly. Why won’t you let me?”  
  
“Don’t want to…” the rest of his response was spoken so softly that John could barely make it out.  
  
“You don’t want to take off your shirt in front of me? Why?” He was utterly dumbfounded.  
  
…  
  
“Sherlock, I’ve seen you as bare as the day you were born hundreds of times. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy on me now.” John tried to make light of it, but the storm brewing on his mate’s face was distressing.  
  
“It’s not that,” he mumbled back, trying to back away.  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
“Skin.”  
  
“Skin? Your skin? What about it?” Sherlock didn’t reply, unable to even look up, and then the wheels in John’s head finally began to whirl. “Oh,” he breathed. “I’m sorry. It’s… from your time away, is it? Some nastiness?”  
  
Sherlock finally raised his head and looked at him. “’Some’ is a drastic understatement, John,” he admitted. He sounded miserable.  
  
John sighed. He should have realised. Sherlock had seemed to have been so much better lately that he sometimes put out of his mind what had happened those two years that they were apart. He knew that it hadn’t been so far from his friend’s mind, though—it was still obvious in the way he held himself; the way he reacted to things.  
  
And now this.  
  
John really didn’t think he had a choice, though. The warehouse had been filthy and the crate ancient. Who knew what he’d exposed himself to?  
  
“I’m sorry about that,” he said slowly, considering his words carefully, “but I really do have to clean those. You don’t want more problems, do you?” Sherlock shook his head. “So please let me clean you up.”  
  
“I don’t want to… repel you.”  
  
“Repel me? How?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged helplessly.  
  
“Look. I know that you either can’t or won’t tell me what happened to you, but I know that none of it was your choice—yeah? It wasn’t like you were on some lark. So whatever happened to you wasn’t your fault, right?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head, mute.  
  
“But you think that I’ll be disgusted or horrified or whatever it is that you think I’ll feel.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, his mouth pressed into a tight line.  
  
“Look. Do you remember the first time you saw my scar?”  
  
Sherlock stared somewhere over his head, considering, and then he shook his head, puzzled.  
  
“Exactly my point. There I was, so embarrassed by it and uncomfortable with you seeing it. Everyone else who had—well, I mean not the doctors of course—but there were some women… anyway, most people who saw it were either horrified or they got all… sentimental about it, you know? ‘Oh, the poor soldier’ and all that.  
  
“But you… you don’t even remember the first time because it really, truly didn’t matter to you.”  
  
“It did matter,” Sherlock protested quietly. It did.  
  
“But it didn’t disgust you, and you didn’t try to drown me in sympathy, either. It was just part of who I was, right?”  
  
“It made you more interesting,” the younger man admitted.  
  
“But not a monster, yeah?”  
  
“No! _Never_ that. Never.” He sounded horrified at the thought.  
  
“So why do you think that my reaction to your body will be any different?” John put a gentle hand on his arm, and for once it wasn’t brushed off.  
  
“It’s… mine’s worse. A lot worse.” Sherlock closed his eyes.  
  
“Sherlock, if nothing is going to change—if we’re going to continue climbing fences and rolling around in warehouses and getting shot at by burglars—I am going to have to continue to patch you up. I will have seen everything eventually. Can you please just trust me to handle it? I want to do this.”  
  
Sherlock finally nodded, once.  
  
“All right. Thank you. Let me find new gloves and some antiseptic and all that and you please take your shirt off.” John bustled about, looking pointedly into drawers and cabinets, collecting what he needed while deliberately not looking in Sherlock’s direction. He was aware, out of the corner of his eye, that the thin man was slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Finally, he pulled it out from his trousers and dropped it carelessly on the floor. And then he stood up very straight, facing the doctor.  
  
John, holding the supplies he had gathered, turned toward him.  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock.”  
  
*  
  
Reeling. John had never really appreciated the full meaning of that word until now. It meant overwhelmed and dizzy and a bit sick and shaky and were those tears?  
  
And guilt.  
  
No, he was fairly sure that guilt was not usually a part of “reeling.” He’d have to ask Sherlock. Not right now, of course.  
  
*  
  
“Okay. Good job,” John whispered wheezily. “Hold onto the back of the chair and let me get you cleaned up.”  
  
Sherlock grasped the back of the chair with both hands, his knuckles turning white. He shut his eyes.  
  
He hardly flinched when John touched the gauze soaked in antiseptic liquid to his side. The scratches, which fortunately were not deep, stung the tiniest bit.  
  
John was, as always, efficient and gentle. “There. All set,” he finally said. “None of them were deep and there was enough bleeding—I don’t think you’ll have any problems as long as you keep them clean, all right?”  
  
He nodded, his eyes still shut.  
  
“Do you want a clean shirt?” his former flatmate asked solicitously.  
  
“I can get it,” he replied hastily. He opened his eyes and turned toward the bedroom.  
  
“You should change those trousers as well. They’re filthy. Probably covered in rat droppings and reeking of knock-off bag fumes.”  
  
He didn’t turn back, but John was fairly sure he heard a faint chuckle at this.  
  
*  
  
John made tea and Sherlock accepted it, wandering over to the window in the sitting room and peering out onto the street.   
  
John sighed and stood behind him. He reached out tentatively and began rubbing the bony back—just running his hand soothingly up and down over the clean shirt—and was surprised that the thin man let him. “Do you know what I thought when I saw you?” he murmured. “And more importantly, what I didn’t think? Sherlock, you were right. It’s far worse than I could possibly have imagined. But do you know what?”  
  
The faintest of enquiring noises emerged.  
  
“Yes, all those scars and marks and everything make me upset. They make me angry. They make me furious that you had to go through all of that on your own. But please just listen—” and he leaned forward and nuzzled into the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “ _They_ do not and _you_ do not repel me.”


	38. Chapter 38

“Pleased to meet you,” Gillian smiled.   
  
Mary smiled back. “Likewise.”  
  
“John, I don’t know if you remember Gillian from Dad’s funeral.”  
  
John shook his head hesitantly. He still felt bad for walking out halfway through and didn’t really remember much of it at all, to be honest. It had just been too hard; hit too close to home.  
  
“You probably don’t remember me. We weren’t actually introduced,” Gillian corrected (and saved him). “But I feel like I’ve met you—Greg talks about you all the time.” John smiled at her, the relief evident on his face.  
  
They were seated and began to scan their menus.  
  
*  
  
“So what was that all about?” Mary demanded as they headed home.  
  
“What was what all about?” John replied tiredly.  
  
“Greg. His ex.”  
  
“Why? What did I miss?”  
  
“Didn’t you see the way he looked at her?”  
  
He thought about it. “I suppose,” he answered doubtfully. “What about it?”  
  
“I think he’s still in love with her,” she declared.  
  
“Do you?” John definitely hadn’t seen that. Had he? Maybe he had. Maybe… okay, so he helped her off with her coat. Held her chair. That was just polite, wasn’t it? Greg was a gentleman.  
  
“Did you see his face when she suggested they share that chocolate mousse? He looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.”  
  
“It was good mousse,” John teased.  
  
She snorted. “You are such a romantic,” she teased back.   
  
*  
  
She sat silently for the first few minutes of the ride home through a light drizzle. Greg was equally silent. Dinner had been… fine. The food was fine and the service was fine and the conversation was… fine.  
  
“So?” Greg finally grunted. “What did you think?”  
  
“It was… fine. It was all fine. It was _horribly_ fine. Greg… how do I say this? I love John. He’s just as wonderful as you said, but Mary… erm…”  
  
“Mary what?” he pressed. “I don’t know her that well.”  
  
“I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. She’s nice enough to chat with. But I felt like there’s something missing. Or something extra. Something else going on with her.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“I can’t figure it out.” She stopped, struggling to put her feelings into words. He waited, concentrating on traffic. The rain started in earnest and he snapped the wipers on. They rode on in silence again for a bit. Greg glanced over at her a few times. She was staring out the window, lost in thought.  
  
“Do you want to come in for a glass of wine before I take you home?” he blurted out suddenly.  
  
“That would be nice.” She turned her head and smiled at him.  
  
“Okay. Good.”  
  
*  
  
“You want some tea?” Mary asked.  
  
“No thanks. I’m knackered,” John called out from the bedroom. He quickly changed into pyjamas and curled up under the covers before Mary wandered in, holding a warm mug of tea to herself.  
  
“God, John, must you keep it so warm in here?” she muttered as she put the mug on the dresser so she could change, sliding it skilfully between a few of the cat ornaments that littered its top.  
  
*  
  
“This is lovely,” Gillian smiled, indicating the large glass of wine Greg had offered to her.  
  
“I remembered you liked that kind,” he explained, popping open his beer and sitting next to her on the sofa.  
  
She gave him an amused look. “So you planned on inviting me up for drinks? And here I thought it was my great charm and witty conversation this evening that were so enticing.”  
  
He grinned a bit sheepishly at her. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to have it,” he explained. “Just in case.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad that you planned ahead. You were always good at that.” She took a sip.  
  
“Was I?”  
  
“Yeah.” She kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under herself.  
  
“Is that a good thing?” he wondered.  
  
“Very.”  
  
*  
  
“Am I bothering you?” Mary asked. She had changed into a soft, light blue nightie that she knew complimented her curves and slid under the covers. Now she curled up around John, casually running her hands down his chest.  
  
“No.”  
  
She continued exploring him with her fingertips. He really did have a lovely, broad chest and even if he was going the tiniest bit soft in some spots around his middle, he was trim and muscular and really not that bad. Why did he insist on wearing such dull pyjamas? They seemed like something an old man would wear. They could really put a damper on things if she let them get to her.  
  
Or—she could simply remove the distraction.  
  
She reached up and began to unbutton the top. His hand on hers startled her.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he explained. “I’m just too tired.”  
  
“Oh… okay.” She withdrew her hand.  
  
“I really am sorry,” he offered.  
  
“It’s fine,” she mumbled. She sighed as she rolled away from him and pulled the covers up.  
  
*  
  
“Why do you women destroy your feet in those nasty shoes?” he wondered as he took one small foot carefully into his lap and rubbed it gently.  
  
“They look nice,” she sighed in contentment. “Why do bachelors always have such horrid sofas?” she teased.  
  
“Horrid?” he replied. “I’m wounded.”  
  
“Yes, horrid. Uncomfortable _and_ hideous. Do they have special shops for them? Some secret website?”  
  
“If I tell you, I lose my membership.”  
  
She giggled.  
  
“But…” he added thoughtfully, finishing his beer, “I think we do all right in the bed department.”  
  
*  
  
Fuck fuck fuck it was so fucked up how did it get this fucked up?  
  
John Watson lay on his back in bed, wide awake, as his fiancée—his short, blond, decidedly female fiancée—snored gently next to him and he could think of nothing but  
  
Tall, dark-haired, decidedly male—  
  
Stop that.  
  
No. Don’t.  
  
He slid out of the bed and went out into the sitting room. He didn’t bother turning on any lights. He sat on the sofa in the dark.  
  
Then he fell over onto his side and curled up with his knees to his chest  
  
And John Watson thought about  
  
He craved  
  
He PINED  
  
for those dark curls and slim hips and   
  
*  
  
Mary—who had woken the instant he had moved to the edge of the bed but of course had not let on—grimaced and shook her head. Fuck, John, do you have to make this so difficult? she thought. I don’t need to feel like this about you…  
  
*  
  
“That. Was. Amazing.” Greg panted.  
  
“Mmmm,” Gillian agreed.  
  
“Not taking you home tonight, by the way,” he added a bit hazily.  
  
“Okay,” she smiled, nuzzling into his chest.  
  



	39. Chapter 39

Come on, John. Answer your phone.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Oh, that glorious, calming voice.  
  
“What do you know about _necrotizing fasciitis_?”  
  
“Either far too much or far too little?” John offered, torn between laughing out loud and having him finally committed.  
  
“About using it as a murder weapon.”  
  
Oh. Well then.  
  
Right up John Watson’s street.  
  
Which, he reflected as he settled into his seat on the almost-empty Tube carriage, said a great deal about his rather bizarre life. When he was fifteen and wrapping a mate’s knee after a nasty football twist-and-fall, had he envisioned any of it?  
  
No, of course not. He had a vague idea about perhaps becoming a doctor, but the army wasn’t a real consideration at that point. That had come a few years later.  
  
And then his life became madness for a bit, and in that madness John Watson had somehow found a sanity that he hadn’t had when he was fifteen and Harry was eighteen and just starting to drink a bit more heavily than her mates and their mum was starting to realise how much of a handful they both were (not bad kids but teens nonetheless and sometimes careless about what they did or said) and Dad had been dead for five years by then and… yes. A doctor. Brilliant.  
  
But had he envisioned the other things back then? No, of course not. How could he have? Back then, the maniac known as Sherlock Holmes was barely… how old? What had he been like as a child?  
  
Oh, his poor parents.  
  
*  
  
“That’s disgusting,” Donovan moaned. “Don’t let him see it or he’ll be wanking right here.”  
  
“Hey!” Lestrade growled. “Enough.”  
  
“Certainly you do realise that if I was so inclined, your presence would be more than enough to dissuade me,” Sherlock drawled. John cracked up and the DI fought to keep a straight face.  
  
“Come on. Take a look,” he managed, tipping his head toward the extremely unattractive corpse.  
  
Sherlock nodded, an intent expression on his face, and pulled on gloves. “John,” he invited as the doctor did the same.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, yeah. There,” John pointed at a stomach-churning area of necrosis. “Obviously need tests to find out more, but it does look fairly classic… except…”  
  
“Yes?” Sherlock prodded eagerly.  
  
“Well, this is a rare infection; it normally doesn’t take hold in a person unless they’re immunocompromised, but at first glance this man looks to be extremely fit. It’s also a bit odd that he died here. He would have been extremely ill; why was he not in hospital?”  
  
“You are brilliant,” Sherlock interjected, smiling proudly at him. “And my thoughts exactly. Now, if everyone would please stay out of my way, I need to—”  
  
And without finishing his sentence he strode briskly out of the bedroom and began his observations.  
  
*  
  
“You don’t,” John stated incongruously. He turned slightly in the cab seat so he could see the detective’s face.  
  
Sherlock gave him a somewhat confused but curious look. “I don’t what?”  
  
“You don’t ‘get off’ on it.”  
  
“What Donovan said? Don’t let it upset you. She’s an idiot.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and John was delighted to see that it was steady.  
  
“Why does she keep talking about you that way?”  
  
“How should I know? Do you want to eat?”  
  
“Don’t change the subject—but yeah, dinner would be nice.”  
  
Sherlock told the driver the name of a restaurant and an address and settled back, looking in bemusement at the older man seated next to him. He waited.  
  
“I mean… why… when did she start… how did it start?” John fumbled.  
  
Sherlock chuckled. “Good thing you don’t write your blogs like that,” he commented.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Changing the subject again. Does she really think you…” He paused as Sherlock’s eyes suddenly flicked away from him and the small smile on his lips disappeared. “Oh. Right. She _doesn’t_ think so. She thinks you don’t get off on _anything_. Is that it?”  
  
“That is the general assumption, yes.” His tone was serious and just the tiniest bit sad.  
  
“Can I tell you something?” John responded quietly.  
  
Sherlock shrugged.  
  
“At first—right at the very beginning, I mean—I thought so too.” And then Sherlock shocked him by bursting out laughing. He grinned back a bit uncertainly. “What?”  
  
“Obviously you got over that assumption.”  
  
The driver glanced at them in his mirror and grinned; it was always nice to hear people having a good laugh.  
  
*  
  
Dinner was lovely. John had expertly navigated through the menu, ordering something for Sherlock that he thought he could manage and getting himself a very nice curry. Sherlock peered at it suspiciously and shuddered and John told him to pay attention to his own dinner, which he had already cut up for him.  
  
Neither of them noticed the waitress’s knowing smile, nor gleaned the significance of the two intertwined hearts she drew on the bill.  
  
*  
  
“I should get home, I suppose,” the doctor sighed. Sherlock scowled. “What’s wrong?” he immediately demanded.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“You’re a terrible liar,” the shorter man pointed out, smiling sweetly. “I suppose I could come by for a bit.”  
  
Sherlock nodded eagerly. “There’s some slides I think you’ll find fascinating…”  
  
*  
  
“That’s incredible!” John whistled, peering into the microscope’s eyepiece. “I never would have thought to take samples from there.”  
  
“Well, no. Of course you wouldn’t have,” the detective replied solemnly.  
  
John laughed at his serious tone and ran his hand through the tousled curls. “You need a haircut,” he noted.  
  
“If I wanted to hear that, I would have invited my mum over.”  
  
“And what would _she_ think of the slides?”  
  
They both chuckled.  
  
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” John finally said. “And then I’d like to hear you play.”  
  
“Oh. I—” he stumbled. “I haven’t really been practising.”  
  
“So I’ll listen to you practise.”  
  
*  
  
“Good Lord. What time is it?” John’s eyes opened wide in alarm as he looked at his watch.   
  
Sherlock shrugged as he wiped down his instrument. He had done better than he thought he would; it was one of the first times he had actually felt well enough to play since he had gotten back. He was also vaguely aware that it had something to do with John being there, listening—a rapt and attentive audience of one that inspired him far more than anything else had done so far.  
  
“Damn. It’s nearly one o’clock.” He paused and looked over at his mate, who was carefully placing his violin in its case.  
  
“Yes, John,” he rumbled. “Your bed’s made up.”  
  
“Thanks, mate,” he acknowledged, smiling warmly.  
  
He wasn’t as surprised as he might have been to discover new pyjamas on the bed—unpackaged and already washed, the way he preferred.  
  
It was too late to text Mary, wasn’t it?  
  
*  
  
Prick. Bastard. Fucker. Asshole. Wanker. Shithead.  
  
Mary added several more words that she had picked up in various places all over the globe as she checked her mobile for the tenth time that hour.  
  
No text from John.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock made a welcoming, appreciative, sleepy noise when John finally came back downstairs and slipped under the covers, curling up behind him; he could smell the washing powder from his new pyjamas.  
  
They both fell asleep not more than ten minutes later, John’s arm wrapped protectively around Sherlock’s waist.  
  
*  
  
“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock mumbled. “No need to be embarrassed.” John didn’t respond and Sherlock had the sense to slide out of the bed and exit the room without another word.  
  
Leaving John to deal with his—  
  
it was morning, after all.  
  
*  
  
And what John should have done was to ignore it; get into a cold shower. Run up the stairs and change into his clothing from the day before and head out with only a brief word and wave to a distracted Sherlock.  
  
That is what he should have done.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock stood as quietly as he could in the hallway, barely daring to breathe as he listened to the fantastic, lovely, enticing sounds of his John taking care of himself.  
  
Whilst he did the same.  
  
They didn’t make a lot of eye contact during breakfast and John left shortly after with promises to phone Sherlock when he had the muscle tissue samples he desired.  
  
*  
  
“Don’t even bother,” she muttered in a voice so low John could barely hear it. “I don’t want to hear about how sorry you are.”  
  
She slammed the door as she stormed out.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock stretched out on the bed. He was quite naked. The only light on in the bedroom was the nightlight, so if he had chosen to lift his head and look down at himself he couldn’t have seen much. It didn’t matter. He had no intention whatsoever of looking down at himself. He didn’t need to look. He knew where everything was.  
  
 _Everything_ included the scars; he was adept at avoiding them. He slid stealthy fingers across them now; skimming lightly over the marred flesh until they reached their goal. He knew that they would bother John--not for aesthetic reasons, but because John actually cared about how he had gotten them.  
  
He felt almost as if he was ready to share that information with the doctor.  
  
Almost.  
  
*  
  
Sometimes it was incredibly awkward, working with one’s fiancée, he reflected. She was expending a great deal of energy avoiding him, and he her.  
  
And they did live together. That evening would be hell.  
  
God, it would be, wouldn’t it?  
  
Did he have the energy?  
  
Did he…  
  
Was it worth it?  
  
*  
  
“What in God’s name is that?” he demanded, his nose wrinkling as he walked into the flat unannounced. He located Sherlock, who was scowling beautifully at three medium-sized beakers on the kitchen table. He was shaking his head and—what was he doing? Scolding them? All right… “So… should I just take these down and cook them at Mrs H’s?” he asked teasingly, holding up the bag of fresh scallops.  
  
“Probably… aren’t those rather expensive?” he demanded, shifting his focus suddenly.  
  
“A bit. Got a deal, but they need to be cooked right away.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and rose, hastily moving the beakers off the table.  
  
*  
  
“This is lovely,” John remarked, waving a fork over the table. They had managed—between the two of them—to organise a fresh salad, fettucine in butter (with no scary parsley or anything like that intruding on the pasta), and the scallops themselves, tender and sweet and with a mayonnaise-based sauce that Sherlock himself had compiled.  
  
Sherlock smiled at him bemusedly. “The food is,” he remarked, popping a scallop into his mouth with his fingers.  
  
“Just the food?” the doctor teased, waving his fork at the candles in holders he had borrowed from Mrs H.  
  
“No, not just the food,” the younger man had agreed quietly. “I don’t really understand why, though,” he added thoughtfully before taking another soft, sweet mouthful; how did John cook them just right?  
  
“Why the special dinner? No particular reason. It’s just nice to have things… nice once in a while, yeah?” John gestured at the small empty bowl in front of his mate. “Do you want more pasta?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
John beamed as he rose and, retrieving the empty dish, loaded it with a small amount of warm pasta and cut the long, creamy strips into pieces before depositing it back in front of the detective, who accepted it with a warm smile.  
  
“Do you want to watch something?” the doctor asked as he dried his hands; he had finished the washing up and Sherlock had dried and put everything away—in random places, of course, but away nonetheless.  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“No?”  
  
“I’d like to play for you,” he offered shyly.  
  
“I would love that,” the doctor beamed. He settled himself in his chair and wiggled his toes (his shoes had long since been abandoned) and the detective beamed back, reaching steady hands out to withdraw his violin from its case.  
  
*  
  
“You aren’t going home tonight,” Sherlock stated as he carefully placed the instrument into its case.  
  
“If you say so, no,” John agreed.  
  
“I say so.”  
  
There was a moment of silence.  
  
“John, would you…”  
  
“Sherlock, do you…”  
  
They both stopped and smiled at each other.  
  
“I’d like that,” Sherlock admitted.  
  
“You’d like what?” John inquired gently.  
  
“I would… that is… I sleep better when…”  
  
“Are my new pyjamas down here?”  
  
“Of course, John.”  
  
*  
  
Was it an elephant in the room if one did not discuss it? Was it only awkward and difficult and frightening when one discussed it?  
  
Apparently yes.  
  
They had no difficulty then. No discussion. They each prepared for bed separately; John had been delighted to discover that he had new slippers now as well.  
  
Sliding under the covers together was as natural as breathing.  
  
Sherlock fell asleep first, John’s arm warm and comforting around him.  
  
*  
  
All right. So it wasn’t the sanest thing in the world to be doing. But when in his ridiculous life had he ever worried about that? If he was concerned about being sane, would he have joined the army? Moved in with Sherlock? Shot a man to save his life?  
  
So, the sanity question answered, John Watson, who had crept out of the bed he shared with a still-too-thin consulting detective at about three o’clock, continued looking for the…  
  
Ah. There it was. He opened the file.  
  
It was the medical file that Mycroft had left (Anthea had dropped it off and did he really years ago try to get a date with her?) when he had first returned Sherlock. John had looked at it before, just to get a general idea of his overall condition (which had been rather horrifyingly bad), but now he was seeking specific information. He flipped through several pages.  
  
Ah. He had found what he sought. Nothing that the course of antibiotics he had been given on his return wouldn’t have taken care of.  
  
Fantastic.  
  
*  
  
In the morning he made toast for both of them. He cut Sherlock’s into soldiers and smothered them in marmalade.  
  



	40. Chapter 40

Oh dinner and far too much fattening lovely pasta and cheese and two bottles of Angelo’s nicest wine and home again, home again after and he wasn’t going to dilly-dally tonight. Not anymore. Not ever again. At the crime scene, he and Sherlock had been… well. Touching—as much as was socially acceptable. Helping with each other’s coats. A hand on an elbow. A hand on a lower back.  
  
Eye contact.  
  
Even Donovan had shut up and just watched for a bit. Sure, Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath and John Watson must be one too, but the way they looked at each other was so much better than any cheap romance novel or film…  
  
*  
  
“Sit down.” He pressed him to sit on the bed. Sherlock looked up at him and his eyes were twin universes, sparkling with billions of stars. He swallowed at the sight. “I’ve been thinking about you so much,” he admitted huskily. He stood in front of the seated man and took his head in his hands.  
  
In fact, he had been thinking about him all evening—even while intervening between Sherlock and DI Dimmock. When he was getting ready to go out. When he was having lunch. When he had gotten to work.  
  
When he had gotten up that morning and slipped out of bed and into the shower before Mary stirred, where he had stroked himself firmly and quickly, his other hand braced on the wall, until he was able to not think about him while he was having breakfast.  
  
“What have you been thinking?” Sherlock inquired a bit shyly.  
  
“I’ve been thinking that I would really, really like to kiss you.”  
  
*  
  
Two plus years—gone. Months and months of torture; of madness and panic—erased. The pain of separation, the pain of loss, the pain of the truth—deleted.  
  
As John cradled his face in his warm hands—oh God those hands how he had missed those hands—everything that had kept them apart dissipated. And then, those lovely, safe, warm hands tipped his head up and he could look into the dark eyes and for the first time in years, he felt calm. He felt at peace. He felt loved. He felt _whole._  
  
The kiss  
  
Oh God the kiss  
  
He nearly wept tears of joy at the first touch of John’s lips to his.  
  
He felt _right._  
  
*  
  
Two plus years—that was how long he had dreamt about this. He had been through hell; through torture. Through madness. The memory had never faded.  
  
The feel of the smooth, cool skin under his fingers; the sharp features. The pulse.  
  
He tipped that beautiful face up; up to his.  
  
He bent his head down.  
  
The kiss was like floating, and sinking, and sailing, and swinging through the air all at once.  
  
*  
  
They kissed and they kissed and Sherlock reached his hands up and wrapped them around the back of John’s head so he could pull him closer and they paused and then they kissed and they kissed until both of them could feel their hearts pounding in their chests and their breath was short and the room seemed so much warmer…  
  
“We have far too much clothing on,” John whispered.  
  
In their scramble to get John’s jumper pulled over his head, it got a bit tangled. “Let me—” and the deep voice made John quiver happily inside. “Plaid,” Sherlock breathed as he carefully unbuttoned the shirt underneath. He glanced down. “Where did your shoes go?” he wondered.  
  
“Took them off when we got home.”  
  
“Goodness. You are happy to see me,” Sherlock commented cheekily, brushing his hand across the front of John’s trousers. And then there was a shift in his tone. “Missed this,” Sherlock admitted as he wrapped his arms around John’s waist and kissed his belly. He reached up and ghosted his fingers across his chest and shoulder. “It’s faded a bit.”  
  
John glanced down at himself and the scar perched at the juncture between his shoulder and his chest. “Yeah, a bit.”  
  
Sherlock broke his gaze on the pinkish white patch of skin. He directed his attention down, tickling John by running his fingertips down the bare chest, lingering on the waistband of his trousers. “May I?”  
  
John nodded and watched as Sherlock carefully unfastened his belt and flies and tugged his trousers down to his ankles. He smiled a bit wickedly at the sight of John’s pants, full and stretched. “Hmm. These seem a bit tight. Shall I help?” he suggested as he deftly slid them down as well. “Out,” he directed, allowing John to steady himself on his shoulder as he stepped out of the discarded garments.  
  
Sherlock’s expression as John was freed from all encumbrances was appreciative; delighted. It was— _hungry_.  
  
John giggled the tiniest bit as the beautiful man seated in front of him unconsciously licked his lips. “Come on now. My turn.” He glanced down. “Shoes first. I’ll do it.” He knelt and untied the ridiculously thin dress shoes, sliding them off. He tucked his fingers in and eased down first one sock, then the other. “How do you get such enormous feet into such tight shoes?” he teased, rubbing the cramped toes a bit.  
  
“I never reveal my secrets.”  
  
John chuckled. “Now the jacket.”  
  
The jacket disappeared.  
  
“And now…” He began to unbutton the dark blue shirt.  
  
“Wait!”  
  
John froze at the panic in the familiar voice. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.  
  
“Shut the light.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t want you to see.” His chin dropped to his chest.  
  
“I’ve seen. Remember?” The doctor cradled his chin and tried lifting his head up.  
  
“Only the top of me, and your reaction was hardly encouraging.”  
  
“I’m sorry about that. Yes, it was a shock, but I got over it, didn’t I? And now I would really like to see the rest,” John murmured sweetly.  
  
“I don’t know if I can do this, John.”  
  
“Would it help if I told you that I will make it very much worth your while?” John’s tone was teasing and light and Sherlock smiled the tiniest bit.  
  
“Possibly…” and then his voice caught in his throat and the smile disappeared. “No, I can’t, John. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… lead you on.”  
  
“You were hardly doing the leading, my love,” the older man pointed out. “I’ve wanted this for ages. Since you started… acting more like yourself. It’s all I think about.”  
  
“Then… please just shut the light.” His mouth was tight and he couldn’t look John in the eye.  
  
“I really need to see you. All of you. Please, Sherlock.”  
  
“It won’t be the same. I’m not the same.”  
  
“Okay, yes. I know that you’ve changed. Doesn’t mean that I don’t want it. Let me show you.” He slowly resumed removing the shirt. Sherlock was so tense he could barely get it off, but finally it was done and John put it gently down on the bed next to the dark-haired man.  
  
He smoothed his hands over the thin chest before pressing himself further between Sherlock’s legs so he could reach around and gently stroke his back. His fingers ghosted over the scars and the smooth skin between. Sherlock had shut his eyes and was just breathing in the scent of this lovely man, trying not to flinch as the fingertips explored the uneven skin.  
  
John buried his face in the familiar curls; the scent of Sherlock’s warm scalp enveloped him. “See?” he murmured. “It’s fine.” He felt the slightest bit of tension fading away under his light touch. He lifted his head and stood upright in front of his love. “Are you ready?”  
  
Sherlock nodded; his mouth tight.  
  
“Do you trust me?” the doctor whispered.  
  
“Yes, John,” he breathed back. “Only you.”  
  
“And you know that if this becomes too much, I’ll stop.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“All right. Let me…” he gently pushed Sherlock back until he was lying on the mattress. “Easy, now,” and he moved his hands to the trousers. Unfastened them. Looked up at Sherlock’s face. Tense and fearful. “Lift,” he requested and then, sliding his hands into the pants, drew everything gently down and off. He heard a somewhat strangled sound and paused in concern.  
  
Because right now Sherlock was busy trying to crawl out of his skin so he could escape the bed and the room and the flat and the street and London and possibly the country entirely rather than be there in that room with his naked body exposed to John. “Get out,” he rasped, his throat tight.  
  
“No.” John shook his head.  
  
“Go away,” he whimpered, turning his head as far as he could; distancing himself from his body; from the circumstances.  
  
“Nope. Not getting rid of me.”  
  
“Don’t look at it.”  
  
“I need to—for you _and_ for me. It’s going to be all right.”  
  
And John Watson looked.  
  
 _Oh, God, Sherlock. What the hell happened to you?_ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We can deal with this together, yeah?” he murmured, reaching out to gently stroke—  
  
“Get _out_!” Sherlock burst out, shoving his hand away. “I don’t want you to see it. I never wanted you to see it.”  
  
“But now I have seen it, and I will see it again, because I’ve missed naked Sherlock very much, and I fully intend to do exactly what we were planning on doing now and many, many more times. Come here.” He lowered himself gently down onto the bed; stretched out with his back against the headboard. He opened his arms and with a whimper Sherlock rolled over and curled up on his chest. “I’m sorry I did that,” he finally offered quietly. “I didn’t mean to force you.”  
  
He received no response, and then he really didn’t know what else to do, so he stroked the dark curls and the pale cheek and the thin back and tried not to think about it—about how it had happened. About _why_ it had happened.  
  
*  
  
After all, it was a HANDPRINT that was carved into the ivory skin.  
  



	41. Chapter 41

They just laid there for a bit, John stroking Sherlock’s hair. The detective had withdrawn completely. “Sweetheart?” the doctor finally murmured. He didn’t get a response. He wondered—how could he break this mood? What did _he_ want? That might give him a hint as to the direction this could go.  
  
Did he still want to snog Sherlock senseless, then embark on a good hour of sweat-drenched skin rubbing against skin, ending in a desperate need for a shower for both of them? He had wanted that. That had been the plan. Was it still? Never one to be shy, John gave himself a nice rub. Yeah. That could work. He wanted to reach out; to do the same with his sweet man. He hesitated, though. Sherlock was so miserable it would undeniably be misconstrued.  
  
Because the HANDPRINT—an actual, life-sized fucking HANDPRINT—was on his inner thigh and based on his reaction, he already knew why it was there; how it had happened.  
  
How much it had hurt his Sherlock.  
  
How damaged he really was.  
  
How much healing he had to do.  
  
Shit, John. Get a hold of yourself.  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
Get a hold of yourself.  
  
There you go.  
  
Perfect.  
  
*  
  
John groaned. It had been ages since he had felt this good.  
  
He didn’t think about what that meant. Him having a fiancée and all.  
  
No.  
  
Don’t think about it.  
  
Don’t think about her.  
  
Don’t think.  
  
Feel  
  
Feel fingers  
  
Not his fingers  
  
Long thin fingers  
  
A musician’s fingers  
  
Oh, God, yes  
  
Oh God  
  
Oh god  
  
oh god  
  
oh  
  
Sherlock  
  
  
  
John came.  
  
*  
  
“You’re still… attracted to me?” Sherlock whispered in disbelief.  
  
“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t. God, the very first time I met you I had a hard time keeping it in my pants.”  
  
“That’s not true! And Stamford might have had something to say about that.”  
  
“Possibly. I don’t care. And now I feel rather lovely and it’s your turn.” He reached a stealthy hand towards… it. Sherlock made a desperate sort of whooshing sound when he made contact. “Please, my love. Let me know if this isn’t all right. If _anything_ isn’t all right.”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
Avoiding the scars. That was the key. The thousands of scars. God, Sherlock. All he wanted to do was to kiss and caress and heal them all…  
  
Not right now.  
  
Right now was mauve velvety-soft skin over engorged blood vessels and all he wanted to do was to stroke it and flick his thumb over the now-wet slit and  
  
Wanted to kiss  
  
Wanted to lick  
  
Wanted to suck  
  
Was that all right?  
  
He would try it. Yes.  
  
He moved; rearranged them.  
  
Sherlock had no objection.  
  
He bent his head down; close. Fingers wrapping around... yes.  
  
Tentative tongue  
  
One lick  
  
Oh  
  
Oh God  
  
Yes  
  
Sherlock _pressed_ into it  
  
Groaned  
  
Beyond words  
  
Beyond thought  
  
Beyond anything but this  
  
This smell  
  
This feel  
  
This taste  
  
Taste and taste and taste  
  
Lick and suck and lavish and swirl and stroke and hold and  
  
Thrust  
  
Into his mouth thrust yes my love do it that’s what I want I can handle it deep let me suck  
  
let it   
  
let me   
  
let us  
  
  
  
And then…  
  
tightening  
  
pulsing  
  
filling  
  
swallowing  
  
stilling  
  
Yes  
  
Oh god yes  
  
I love you so very very much  
  
*  
  
John collapsed; sprawled out on his love’s thin hips; over his waist. He had never tasted anything as good as Sherlock’s cock; his come. He didn’t give even a vaguely airborne fuck who knew or who cared. This was what was meant to be: his mouth and Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s mouth and his cock. Hands on cocks. Skin on skin. Thrusting and lunging and groaning and longing.  
  
Yes. Concentrate on that. _Think of nothing but that, John,_ he told himself.  
  
*  
  
And now there was Sherlock. The heat of the moment had passed and he was shivering. Stressed.  
  
Scarred  
  
Broken?  
  
Yes  
  
Raped?  
  
YES  
  
Damaged?  
  
Beyond belief  
  
  
  
Love him  
  
Hold him  
  
Comfort him  
  
  
  
 _Duvet murmured words loving hands gentle_  
  
  
  
We’ll fix this. You can be fixed.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. I’ve missed you so much.”  
  
*  
  
And then for some god-damned reason a thought crossed his mind. His fucking fiancée….  
  
Fuck  
  
This was really, really fucked up, wasn’t it?  
  
Damn  
  
What the fuck was he going to do about Mary?  
  



	42. Chapter 42

Morning. Fuck.  
  
John woke first. Mmm lovely warm with my love in the gloriously soft sheets and God he just smelled so fantastic and I would be very happy just sort of nuzzling into that bit behind his ear so I can inhale his shampoo and shower gel and  
  
And him  
  
and  
  
oh  
  
There was something a Bit Not Good about this, wasn’t there? He couldn’t quite remember it at first; all sleepy and warm and lovely and  
  
oh  
  
right  
  
damn  
  
“It’s all right, John.”  
  
What?  
  
“What…?”  
  
“While I appreciated last night—a great deal—I do understand that we are no longer in a relationship. You are engaged to Mary and I wish to respect that commitment.”  
  
“But… God, Sherlock. I don’t know. I don’t know if—” He couldn’t go on. They were still spooned together, John wrapped protectively around his darling, his face buried in the nape of his neck; dark curls surrounded him—it made him feel better than he had felt in years.  
  
“I’m not very good at this,” Sherlock rumbled, and John clutched him tighter to feel the vibrations through his chest. “Feelings and such. But I have been reliably informed that having a more ‘normal’ life would be to your advantage. Healthier. I want nothing but for you to be well and whole and healthy, John, and a relationship with me clearly cannot provide that.”  
  
Did he mean that? Or did he mean that he no longer wanted it and this was a safe way to express his feelings? When the younger man wanted to be guarded about his emotions, he excelled, and John really couldn’t tell.  
  
But… no.  
  
“Who told you that?” he asked gently, brushing aside curls and kissing the fragrant neck. “Who told you that that would be better for me?” He could feel him tightening up. Damn.  
  
“People who understand these things far more than I do,” Sherlock responded sadly.  
  
Oh! A chink.  
  
“But aren’t I one of those people? One of those people you trust to explain feelings?”  
  
“Yes, of course.” He tried to pull away from those lovely butterfly kisses, but John was strong and it was, admittedly, a rather pathetic attempt.  
  
“So what would you do if I said that this—exactly this, in bed and waking up and kissing you and what we did last night and eventually getting up and making you eggy bread—is not only what I want, but what is best for me?”  
  
“I…” Sherlock fell silent.  
  
Damn, John. You are so very confusing and lovely and yes I want eggy bread and I want to roll over and kiss you even with morning breath and I want to stay in bed with you all day and even if it wasn’t realistic want you to get hard and want to…  
  
It hurt his chest. The whatever-it-was-please-only-you-can-tell-me that was there hurt dreadfully and made taking a deep breath painful and it made his head ache and his eyes sting and  
  
No more  
  
no more no more no more  
  
we are no more there is no relationship it no longer exists  
  
you and I  
  
we  
  
there is no us   
  
no longer exist  
  
“I can’t do this. Get out,” he mumbled, his throat tight. “Go home to Mary. Please.”  
  
*  
  
John didn’t actually care that tears streaked down his cheeks as he let the Tube take him away from Sherlock  
  
Take him away from home  
  
An older woman seated next to him patted his knee. Sherlock could have… would have… deduced… you know… the thing he did… the trick… it wasn’t a trick.  
  
“It’s all right, you know,” she commented softly, digging a tissue out of her bag and offering it to him.  
  
“What is?” he managed to rasp as he blew his nose. “Thank you.”  
  
“That whole ‘it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all’ thing isn’t nearly as awful as it sounds, and it’s always better to have loved. The pain fades. The love never does. Trust me.”  
  
“Am I as transparent as all that?” he asked sadly.  
  
“Afraid so,” she responded with a knowing smile.  
  
She got off at the next station and he stayed on and he stayed on and he stayed on for hours.  
  
The love never fades.  
  



	43. Chapter 43

They had agreed that some time apart was a good idea. Well, not exactly agreed. In fact, they had not even discussed it. They had not been _intimate_ —as Sherlock somewhat stiffly described it—after that one time. They were careful—rather forcibly careful—not to put themselves into a situation that might allow it.  
  
It was not easy—not at all. It had been wonderful. Too wonderful. Both of them spent far too much time thinking about it. John in particular found it challenging. He lived with Mary. He worked with her. He socialised with her. He tried focusing on that—on his relationship with his fiancée; on his work at the surgery. On being _normal_.  
  
He did take showers at odd times now, and sometimes he would fall asleep on the sofa instead of coming to bed. Mary noticed the change, of course, but she didn’t prod him about it. Instead, she focused on making coming to bed more attractive.  
  
Sherlock didn’t have those distractions. Instead, he buried himself in his work and experiments and arguing with Mycroft. And when the scenes recalled themselves—not just what they had done recently but all the times before—he would curl up in their bed and shut his eyes and let the memories flood over and through him and sometimes they hurt and sometimes they made him laugh and sometimes they felt better than anything else in the world and he wanted—he ached—to feel those things again.  
  
He didn’t tell John this, of course. Instead, he sent the doctor a long email in which he carefully explained that he was simply not the man he had been and they could not turn back the clock. The doctor had moved on and Sherlock was very happy for him. Yes, that was it. He thought he was fairly convincing and John was really still undecided; just nudging him a bit, right?  
  
Sherlock didn’t want to break them up—Mary and John. He still had some use for Mary.  
  
Of course that was not what he explained in a two-thousand-word email to his John—he was careful not to dwell too much on the one night of… but the rest of it. Somewhat. The “moved on” part sounded convincing and Sherlock being happy for him… well. It was also what he told Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. Angelo. He didn’t bother telling Mycroft. Mycroft would know that he was lying.  
  
Somehow he never sent it.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock had decided to touch base with a few people in his homeless network.  
  
He was shaken about how he felt upon hearing that Odd Thomas had passed away. How had he felt? Sad? Was that it? He was fairly certain that was what it was, but it had taken a few hours to figure that out, and because of that, when he first heard the news, he hadn’t really said anything. Done anything. Reacted at all, in fact.  
  
Elin, who had told him about Thomas being found on a bench in Hyde Park—his favourite bench, at least—had clearly been made uncomfortable about his lack of reaction. She hadn’t known Sherlock all that well before his… _hiatus_ , as some people termed it… and she was put off by his cold reaction.  
  
“Oh. Did he? Who else do we have in the park, then?”  
  
Damn. He knew that he sounded awful. John would have been upset if he had heard him, but John wasn’t there. But if John _was_ there, what would he do?  
  
“Do you want to eat?” he blurted out.  
  
The meal had been awkward. Elin had most certainly wanted to eat. He knew that she would not be comfortable in any restaurant that he selected, so he allowed her to direct them to a tiny curry shop. He suppressed a shudder at the pungent odour that rolled out the door.  
  
All right. He could do this. Sometimes John fancied a curry and would convince the younger man to join him. He would expertly work through the menu, ordering the safest food he could for him. Yes, they had done that several times.   
  
What would John get him that he hadn’t found utterly repulsive?  
  
Damn. He couldn’t remember, and the warmth and the strong odours of the shop were overpowering him; making his head ache. “Get whatever you like,” he had told Elin.  
  
“Are you all right?” she asked. There were tiny tables in one corner of the shop and she guided him to one and got him to sit down.  
  
“A bit tired, perhaps,” he admitted.  
  
“You need to eat,” she replied a bit sharply. “Give me some money.”  
  
He readily handed her a generous amount; he knew that it was far more than the food would cost and she knew that he expected her to keep the change. It was better than him simply handing the cash to her; she was one of the ones who didn’t like that.  
  
She went up to the counter to order, glancing back a few times. She hadn’t known him terribly well before his disappearance, but she was fairly sure he hadn’t looked quite so much like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come as he did now.  
  
*  
  
He knew better than to be sick right there; the street wasn’t much better and the cab… well, he had paid enough fines already. He somehow managed to hold himself together until he was…  
  
Oh god why were there seventeen steps?  
  
But he made it and direct into the kitchen and to the sink and he had given Elin all of the leftovers so it wasn’t wasting all that much food, right? And as he dragged himself to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, he could John’s voice: It’s all right. You tried. You did the best you could. It’s all right. Do you want to lie down?  
  
Yes, he most certainly did. He pulled his jacket and shirt and shoes and socks and trousers off and just left them—pick those up! —and he had to pick up the duvet because for some reason it was on the floor and he rolled up in it and curled his head in because the pillows were still on the floor and he  
  
He did  
  
He whimpered… and he rocked.  
  
He wanted John there—John would take care of the horrible taste in his mouth and his aching head and that thing…  
  
It was  
  
It wasn’t the food itself  
  
It wasn’t the taste, really  
  
It was the  
  
Oh God he could feel it in his mouth and he unrolled himself and pushed the duvet away and back into the bathroom and knees hit tile floor and hands grasped the cool porcelain  
  
And he wanted and wanted and wanted  
  
Where was John?  
  
*  
  
Oh my god this was the most bored he had ever been in his entire life. He recalled Sherlock once asking him if a person could literally die of boredom and he denied it then but now he was seriously rethinking that.  
  
Because who gave a flying fuck about a formal church wedding versus a… whatever else there was. Was there something else? Of course there was. There were venues in which one could be married. It was all licensed and proper. He understood that in America they didn’t have rules like that; one could get married on a beach or in a park or on a cliff.  
  
On the roof of a building…  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
Someone had asked him a question.  
  
“Oh, John’s not fussy about things like that,” Mary smiled, smoothing it all over with an affectionate hand on his arm. On the surface. He tried not to grimace as her nails dug in.  
  
*  
  
What was the first thing? The first time? He couldn’t remember. Mummy said that that was fine; he was only tiny and since birth he had had a tricky little tum. Unlike his brother, who had eagerly embraced new flavours and textures, he seemed to have an aversion to them. They hadn’t forced him. They would introduce him to something new, but with the complicit understanding that in no way was he expected to even try it.  
  
A dish. A small dish. He remembered small dishes.  
  
What was in that one?  
  
Mummy had put it down in front of him and then turned away to get something. He peered at it suspiciously. He couldn’t smell anything—yet. He reached out a tentative hand and pulled the dish towards himself.  
  
Hmm. An odd orange colour. He didn’t recognise it. He picked up his spoon and tentatively poked at it. Ugh. Mushy. He scooped up a bit of the whatever-it-was with his spoon (and it was only _his_ spoon; he had his own spoons and no one was allowed to use them except him—Mummy made sure of that) and hesitantly brought it to himself. Close enough to finally smell it.  
  
Mummy had not fussed a bit about the peach cobbler, even as she cleaned it from the kitchen floor and cupboards whilst Daddy swept him into the sitting room and persuaded him to play a game of chess.  
  
He was three years old.  
  
*  
  
“It’s not going to be a long list,” he remarked, staring at the blank piece of paper in front of him. He resolutely picked up his pen and started:  
  
Sherlock  
  
Greg  
  
Mrs Hudson  
  
Mike and his wife  
  
Molly  
  
He had paused at that point, before adding:  
  
Harry  
  
And then he put his pen down. Who else would he want to come to their wedding?  
  
*  
  
School. God, it had been awful. Dull students and idiotic teachers and so much noise all the time and all those people crowding in on him and he could see them and hear them and smell them and feel them as they pressed against him in the queues and before and after sports and the only place he felt really right was during his music lessons and fencing. He had hated the meals in particular.  
  
He had liked the fencing. He still liked fencing.  
  
*  
  
“No, whatever you choose will be fine, I’m sure,” he assured her, because really who gave a damn if they had peas or carrots or whatever it was…  
  
He was still thinking about the venues themselves. He had poked at a few websites (Mary had emailed him the links) and he was surprised by the percentage that not only mentioned that they were licensed for civil ceremonies and partnerships but also featured same-sex couples in their advertising.  
  
Not that that mattered.  
  
What was he supposed to be thinking about?  
  
Oh, right.  
  
Courgettes?  
  
Oh, no. No courgettes.  
  
*  
  
How did one get a feel out of one’s mouth? He knew how to get a taste out—and a smell out of one’s nose. Mouthwash was the fastest way for both, and had the advantage of numbing everything as well. Why was that an advantage?  
  
Textures.  
  
Round was fine. Round was lovely.  
  
Peas were safe if it was just peas.  
  
Pearl onions could be nice.  
  
Carrot slices. Slices only. Not diced. Definitely not shredded.  
  
shredded anything no stringy long all tangled in his teeth and on his tongue and down his throat and  
  
no  
  
*  
  
“What the _hell_ is ‘Cannon of Romney salt, marsh lamb, navarin of vegetables, and baby rosemary fondant potatoes with red wine glazed pan juices’? I literally understand eight words in that whole thing and two of them have nothing to do with food.”  
  
“John, please.”  
  
*  
  
He didn’t shirk from strong flavours, though. He liked garlic and onion and lots of spice (especially on sweet dishes) and vinegar and salt and no he could not _explain_ it.  
  
Mummy never made him explain it.  
  
John never did, either.  
  
*  
  
Roast loin of Kent venison with potato Normande roasted chantennay carrots with new season garlic and chives, port wine jus  
  
Oh, they were just making shit up now, weren’t they?  
  
Couldn’t they just have fish and chips and peas in a separate dish and something lovely for pudding?  
  
*  
  
“Seriously, John, could you not just look this stuff up before you embarrass me in front of the catering manager?”  
  
“Why should it embarrass you if I don’t know what ‘Faroe Isles Cod, organic salmon and tiger prawn terrine, pea shoot and beetroot salad, and Melba toast with lime zest dressing’ is? I’m sure the catering manager doesn’t know the difference between a monofilament and a multifilament suture.”  
  
She looked at him sharply. That was a rather odd way of making his point, wasn’t it?  
  
*  
  
Sushi was nice because of the clean, fresh flavours and the texture was firm but creamy and it really was quite lovely. And wasabi was just entertaining.  
  
*  
  
“I don’t even know… are we going to have… seriously. I have no idea who to even get for a best man, let alone a whole wedding party.”  
  
“Well, I’ve got at least three girlfriends who absolutely must be bridesmaids, so you’ll just have to work on that. Anyone else from Bart’s?”  
  
Neither of them even thought for a moment to bring up Sherlock as best man.  
  



	44. Chapter 44

“What the fuck are you doing?” Greg demanded before he had even ordered a drink.  
  
“What?!” John, who had been waiting, put down his own beer. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”  
  
“I’m talking about… ‘No, I’m working.’ ‘No, Mary and I have dinner plans.’ ‘No, I haven’t talked to him in a few days.’ ‘No, I haven’t seen him in a week.’”  
  
John stared at him, reviewing his statements in his head. Yes, he had said those things—all of them.   
  
Greg was disgusted. The doctor had turned down joining them on cases and for a night out with the lads and even cut a call short because he had to get the laundry done before Mary got home. It was horrible.  
  
And he was getting worried about Sherlock. Every conversation was more vague. Less focused. Not confused like he had been, but—shit.  
  
Sherlock was getting bored.  
  
*   
  
“Oh, what fresh hell is this?” John muttered. Mary smacked his shoulder.  
  
“Bastard,” she hissed. “Her son—and yes he is an addict but oh well—has gone missing and she is rather frantic. You could be a bit more understanding.”  
  
“Fine… where do you think he is?”  
  
A drug den. Could be interesting. It would certainly be more interesting than learning the difference between purple and lilac.  
  
*  
  
“Have you come for me as well?”  
  
Oh, God. That voice. “Sherlock?”  
  
One month. It had been one month since they had… well. Since they had agreed to spend less time together.  
  
And clearly Sherlock, like most four-year-olds, could not be left to his own devices. John wasn’t exactly sure, but he was fairly certain that he enjoyed watching Molly slapping the bastard when the drug test turned out positive (no surprise there), and it was obvious that Mary had enjoyed it.  
  
Really?  
  
She… yes, she had. She had tried to hide it with a stern expression, but yeah…  
  
So he had her go home whilst he escorted Sherlock to Baker Street, and what fun the subsequent argument had been. Mycroft had appeared and Sherlock had whined and pouted and fussed and then shut down entirely whilst he and the older brother argued about whose responsibility he was.  
  
*  
  
Oh. He was John’s responsibility.  
  
All right then.  
  
The whole thing actually had been sort of fun.  
  



	45. Chapter 45

John was not about to let Sherlock know that he was almost enjoying himself, of course. He had divided his energies between shouting at Mycroft and shouting at Sherlock until Sherlock had become flat out violent. All right. Then it was time to get serious.  
  
“Come sit down,” he had hissed as he pulled the younger brother away from the government man, who after a flash of panic had crossed his face rapidly composed himself, brushing almost viciously at the lapels of his grey suit jacket. He had yanked the thin arm, twisting it expertly until he got his mate back into his chair. “Stay there,” he commanded. “And you—” he turned to face Mycroft— “time to leave.”  
  
“I will do so, Doctor, and gladly. I am leaving him entirely in your hands.” He drew himself up and strode out of the flat.  
  
John turned and faced Sherlock, who was curled up, his head on his knees. “Well?” he demanded, “What do you have to say for yourself?”  
  
“It was for a case,” the younger man responded a bit weakly.  
  
“A case? So you just _happened_ to find a case that required you to shoot up? That’s amazing.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Bollocks. Get up. You need a shower. I can smell you from here.”  
  
“Tired.”  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake, you idiot. Just take a shower and then you can sleep, okay?” He stepped forward and, grasping his elbow, pulled him gently up.  
  
*  
  
He allowed Sherlock to shower on his own—although he did step into the steamy bathroom and gather up all the horrid, filthy clothing he had been wearing. He grimaced as he went through it. He’d drop it all in Mrs Hudson’s bins on his way out—and he’d dispose of the needles and whatever was in the plastic bags at the surgery.  
  
He paused when he went into the bedroom to pull out clean clothing. The mattress was bare; all the bedding was on the floor. He made up the bed before bringing the clothing into the bathroom.  
  
“How are you doing?” he asked over the sound of the running water. He got no reply. “Sherlock? Are you all right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He dropped the clothing on the closed toilet and jerked back the curtain. Sherlock was sitting in the tub, the hot water running over him. “A bit shaky?” he asked in concern.  
  
“Go away, John,” was the disconsolate response.  
  
*  
  
John sighed. He had not, of course, gone anywhere. He had reached in and shut off the water and wrapped the shivering man in a thick towel and helped him over the side of the tub and into the bedroom, where he left him seated on the bed and went to retrieve the clean clothing he had chosen. He rubbed him briskly from top to bottom, including his hair, and in two minutes had him dressed and warm.  
  
“Get into bed,” he directed. “Do you want me to lie down with you for a bit?”  
  
“I already told you—I want you to go away. Please, John. I really just want to sleep. I’ll be fine on my own.”  
  
The doctor hesitated. “Oh,” he finally offered. “All right. So I’ll just get going? Can I phone you later?”  
  
The thin man sighed. “If you must, yes. All right.”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock stared at his mobile in surprise. John had said he would phone; that wasn’t the surprising thing. It was that it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Sherlock was awake; he had been up for a few hours, reading. He had eaten an orange and the sitting room smelled of the lovely, fragrant peels.  
  
“John? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing. I said I’d phone.”  
  
“You do realise what time it is?” The thin man rose and began pacing, his mobile pressed to his ear.  
  
“I wanted to make sure Mary was asleep. She’s such a light sleeper.”  
  
“Oh. All right. Well, then. You phoned…”  
  
“To see how you were feeling.”  
  
“All right?” he offered hesitantly. “And you?”  
  
“I… shit, Sherlock. What the fuck are we doing?”  
  
“We’re… chatting?”  
  
“No, I mean what are you and I doing about _us_?”  
  
There was a pause. Sherlock was baffled. “’Us’? You’ve made it clear that there is no more ‘us’,” he finally responded.  
  
John swallowed and licked his lips. “Yeah, I know what I said.”  
  
“So why are you bringing it up now?”  
  
“Why now? Sherlock, correct me if I’m wrong—I know how you love to do that—but what we did a month ago—”  
  
“Was a mistake.”  
  
“What do you… do you mean that?” John’s voice was tight.  
  
“You really should be sleeping. Don’t you have to work in the morning?”  
  
“Stop changing the subject. Do you really think that what happened between us was a mistake?”  
  
“Yes, John, I do.”  
  
“How can you think that?”  
  
“John, we were something very important to one another at one point. I am not denying that. However, my… departure obviously changed that. You have been an excellent friend to me since my return, but you are correct in stating that we are no longer in the same sort of relationship we once shared. You have moved on.”  
  
There was dead silence—almost. Sherlock thought that he could hear John’s breath rasping, but he couldn’t possibly hear that, could he? What he definitely heard then was a sharp intake of breath.  
  
“I… all right. But you’re not denying that we were in a relationship.”  
  
“No. I’ve said that.”  
  
“And I suppose that technically I have moved on, yes.”  
  
“I think it’s a bit more than just a technicality,” the detective pointed out. “You have a regular job. You live in a tidy, nicely decorated place. You go out for drinks with your mates on Friday evenings. You’re engaged to be married. To a woman. Everything you wanted, isn’t it?”  
  
“How can you say that?”  
  
Sherlock considered his reply. It had to be convincing. “You have commented more than once that I am one of the most observant men in England. I am simply describing what I have observed.”  
  
“And you’re fine with it? With me ‘moving on’?”  
  
“I don’t think I have a choice, do I? I made this particular bed, so I must lie in it.”  
  
“Can you please just tell me one thing?”  
  
“Yes, of course, John.”  
  
“Tell me that it’s because of Mary and you wanting me to have a normal life and all that—and not that you don’t want me anymore.”  
  
 _Yes yes yes John that’s it exactly and I hate it and I want you here and I want you in my bed and in the kitchen and in the sitting room and next to me at crime scenes and at Tesco and_  
  
“It’s…”  
  
John waited.  
  
“I…”  
  
And he finally whispered his response and then ended the call and threw his mobile as far away as he could manage and pushed it out of his thoughts  
  
Pushed  
  
And the scalpel—so much better than a razor—was lovely and sharp and the blood was warm and slick.  
  
*  
  
John had to get some water. After ten minutes of sitting with his head in his hands and breathing as evenly as he could he still felt a bit odd and unsure of his legs and he kept hearing Sherlock’s response to his desperate request. Was Sherlock’s rejection of a relationship because of social niceties? Out of a concern for John’s future? Or because he truly did not want to be with John any longer?  
  
Over and over and over  
  
  
  
 _Want you more than breathing_  
  



	46. Chapter 46

“I’m not going to lie, John. It’s a bad one. I need him here, but I’m not sure how it’s going to affect him.” Greg admitted.  
  
“All right. Just this once. Text me the address and I’ll meet you both there.”  
  
The headline he had seen read: Banker Disappears.  
  
*  
  
“No!”  
  
“Sherlock, get in here. You need a bath.”  
  
“ ‘m fine.”  
  
“No, you are not ‘fine.’ You were rolling around in a skip. You are disgusting.” John, having gotten the taps going, popped back into the bedroom, where he had left his mate to remove his filthy clothing. He expected him to be scowling at the pile of laundry, a dressing gown thrown carelessly on, if anything.  
  
Instead…  
  
Oh, shit. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, his knees drawn up to his chest and his head down. He hadn’t removed anything but his jacket.  
  
“Sherlock, what’s the matter?” he burst out. He got no reply. He sat next to him, trying to see his face. He gently tipped his head back. The detective’s face was a study in misery. “You were fine not five minutes ago. What’s wrong?” he asked him more gently.  
  
“Don’t know.”  
  
John thought about that. Had he actually been fine? The case had been a bit intense and, as he considered it, he realised that Sherlock had been a bit off from the very beginning. Several times that evening he had lost focus; John and Greg both had had to prod him to keep moving forward. It wasn’t like him at all. He laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm and it came to him.  
  
The victim—who was indeed the banker who had disappeared—had been found in a horrific condition—restrained and tortured. That in itself usually didn’t bother Sherlock (a fact that usually bothered John). So why had this particular one gotten to him?   
  
Idiot! He wanted to smack himself on the head. Of course!  
  
The victim had been tortured in the form of cigarette burns—and rape. Why the hell hadn’t he realised before? Seeing someone like that was the last thing Sherlock needed. He had been doing fairly well lately, but this was going to set him back by weeks.  
  
So now what? He could see Sherlock retreating into his great brain, churning over the circumstances. Was he remembering specifics of what he had been through? Was he wondering how much pain the other victim had suffered? He had to draw Sherlock out of himself; distract and calm him. But how?  
  
“Oh, the bath!” He got up and dashed into the bathroom to check on the water, and as he dipped a wrist into it to determine the temperature, a thought occurred to him. He paused. Would it work? Would it make him worse? Would he reject the idea—and John—entirely? He had no idea. Dealing with fried Sherlock had turned everything topsy turvy.  
  
Crap. He’d never know if he didn’t try, and once he had decided, he knew it would have to be all or nothing. John fished around for a few things before heading back into the bedroom and crouching in front of the miserable man. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching up. “Let’s get all this off,” he prompted gently. Sherlock didn’t respond. “I’ve got a nice bath run for you, sweetheart.”  
  
Sherlock frowned slightly.  
  
“Come on. Get that mucky stuff off, take a nice bath, and then into cosy jimjams, okay?”  
  
The younger man looked down at himself, frustration clouding his features. He reached up and fumbled with a shirt button before giving up, letting his hands drop to his lap.  
  
John prayed that he was on the right track. He smiled gently and brushed a dark curl from the pale forehead. “My sweet boy. You seem very sad and tired today.”  
  
Sherlock looked up, into his eyes—pain and sorrow and terror and anguish fighting across his features. He nodded, once. His hands went up and struggled with the button again before, with a strangled exclamation, he gave up. “Can’t…” he whispered.  
  
“Can’t what, my love?” He stroked his cheek.  
  
“You do it,” he sighed, almost unperceivably.  
  
That was it. That was what he had wanted to hear. “Sherlock,” he offered slowly, “do you want _Daddy_ to do the buttons?” He held his breath, waiting for a response. And then…  
  
“Daddy does buttons.”  
  
Oh, thank God. John had been so hesitant about re-introducing this feature into their lives. This was different from when he was first back and so very confused and sliding down involuntarily. “Sit back,” he instructed, and he reached out and, very gently, unbuttoned the dirty shirt. Drew it off. “Up, now,” and he got them both standing.   
  
“No…” Sherlock attempted to protest, but his voice caught in his throat.  
  
“Yes,” his daddy responded.  
  
Gently undid his flies and drew off his trousers and pants. Revealed him.  
  
Whimpering and shying away and it was horrible. Despite John’s repeated attempts to assure him that the scars, horrific as they were, didn’t affect his feelings for him, the younger man still struggled with them. With his own feelings about them. With his feelings about being naked—being exposed—even to the one person he trusted implicitly.  
  
Because of course it wasn’t just the scars—it was what they represented. That was what was truly tearing the detective apart.  
  
Big Sherlock struggled. Big Sherlock fought it. Big Sherlock rejected every bit of comfort his blogger could offer him. So, John had reasoned, it was time to stop dealing with Big Sherlock.  
  
And so he had. He was no longer “Doctor John Watson” of his blog or the media—not the “Hatman’s sidekick.” Not the “confirmed bachelor.” Not even the suspected lover and partner. No. Right now he was exactly what Sherlock needed him to be.  
  
He was Sherlock’s Daddy again.  
  
“Oh, baby boy. I know. I know you’ve been through some really scary things, and you were all alone, and I am so, so sorry that I wasn’t there to protect you. You know that if I had been there, I wouldn’t have let this happen, right?”  
  
Sherlock fell back down onto the bed and hid his face in his hands. His breath rasped in as he attempted to control himself. It was too much, and John was almost grateful when he began to cry.  
  
He let him for a while. He needed this.  
  
*  
  
Daddy reached for the tissues. “Blow,” he directed. Sherlock blew, but he couldn’t stop crying. “Shhhh,” his daddy shushed as he rocked him in his strong arms. “It’s all right. It’s all right to be upset and scared and cry about it.”  
  
“No…” he managed. He coughed—his throat was all glunky and yucky and his face was hot and his cheeks and eyes burned.  
  
“No?” Daddy pursued, taking the soggy tissue away.  
  
“Daddy shouldn’t.”  
  
“Why not, sweetheart?”  
  
It was so hard to say; the words jammed in his throat, which was tight and sore. “I was bad,” he finally blurted out. “I went away without you and I did bad things.”  
  
“You? No! No. You weren’t bad. You were doing what Big Brother needed you to do, right?” Sherlock nodded miserably. “And some really bad things happened to you.” Daddy ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls and he leaned into it.  
  
He wanted that hand. He needed it. He needed it to calm and sooth and direct and wipe and take care of him. He nuzzled it.  
  
And then he realised what he was doing and abruptly pulled away.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Daddy asked in alarm. “Come here, my sweet boy. It’s all right. It’s all over.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No what?”  
  
Sherlock whimpered and shook his head. “ _Not_ over it’s not over it’s _here_ I was bad and it’s all still here and it won’t go away and I tried to make it go away and it’s all _still here_.”  
  
 _Here_ was his leg and _still here_ was the scar and John watched in horror as Sherlock desperately scrubbed viciously at it with his hand, becoming more and more agitated with each thrust of his arm.   
  
Daddy put his hand on Sherlock’s and stilled it. “Sherlock,” he said firmly, “you are not a bad boy, and Daddy wants to take care of you. A very, very bad person touched you in a way that was not at all okay and Daddy is going to fix this, all right? Now, how about you get into your bath and I find your boats, yeah?”  
  
He rose from the bed and held out his hands, and Sherlock reluctantly took them and allowed himself to be pulled gently into the warm, steamy bathroom.  
  
*  
  
John spent most of the next twenty minutes trying not to cry himself as Sherlock somewhat apathetically sailed his boats around the tub. He offered the bath crayons but his boy had shied away from them. All right. He found the pirate ship and the people—a boy and a girl—and their dolphin, but was alarmed as, instead of having them swim together, his sweet boy began lining them up on the edge of the tub and rather viciously knocking them into the water, one by one, over and over.  
  
When he shoved the boy over the other way, hitting the tile floor, he had had enough. “All right, my love. Time for jimjams.” He helped him out of the tub and towelled him off, then led him, shivering, into the bedroom and found nice, comfortable clothing for him. He hesitated a bit, but then—yes—dug out the night-time pants. He drew them up and dressed his sweet boy and then he was clean and dry and warm.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock nuzzled into Daddy’s strong chest, and the safe hands were on his back now, gently rubbing up and down. “Sherlock,” Daddy mused, still rubbing. “I think… I think I’d like to take you to another doctor.”  
  
“No!” he howled. Daddy was his doctor, wasn’t he?  
  
“No no no. It’s not like that. It’s just… there are doctors who specialise—who do very special things—and Daddy would like to take you to a doctor who is called a very funny name. Would you like to know what he’s called?”  
  
Sherlock considered. He liked funny words. Even Big Sherlock did. And if Daddy wanted to take him, it must be all right, right? He nodded.  
  
“He’s called a ‘plastic surgeon,’ and do you know what his job is?”  
  
Plastic like his building blocks and his dishes? Really? Sherlock shook his head, smiling a bit.  
  
“His job is to fix skin,” Daddy explained.  
  
Oh.  
  
Fix skin.  
  
Fix his skin.  
  
Fix his skin where…  
  
The tears were hot and stung his cheeks and Daddy was holding him and rocking him and humming soft music to him and he wanted his bee and Daddy somehow was giving him his bee and wiping his face with a tissue and saying something about being right back and then Daddy was gone and that was really, really scary and he cried until Daddy was back with a cool, wet flannel for his hot face and another tissue and blow and his bee and…  
  
He was awfully tired.  
  
Maybe if he put his head down, just for a bit, he’d feel better.  
  
“Lie down, my sweetheart,” Daddy said. He lay down. “You must be cold. Here.” Daddy covered him with a soft blanket.  
  
He had his blanket and his bee and his bed and his Daddy…  
  
*  
  
John didn’t know what to do. Should he phone Mycroft? What good would that do?  
  
No. It was up to him.  
  
It was up to Doctor John Watson to take his—whatever he was—to a plastic surgeon to have as much evidence of his horrific experiences as possible erased.  
  
  
  



	47. Chapter 47

“Sod it, Mycroft,” John hissed into his mobile. “He needs it fixed. Have you seen it?”  
  
“Of course, Doctor. When he first came back.”  
  
“Right. And in those eight days that you had him—without telling me—in those eight days you got him a haircut and a shave and a suit and shirt and a replacement for his fucking coat—shit. It just occurred to me. That’s not a replacement, is it? That’s the fucking coat he was wearing when he… fuck.”  
  
“You really must elevate your language above the vernacular,” Mycroft drawled.  
  
“Deflecting, you bastard,” John snarled back. “No. Eight days and what did you do? Clean him up? We’ve already established that you didn’t do a fucking thing about the wound on his head. You didn’t get him eating or talking. What the hell _did_ you do?”  
  
“You’re getting yourself worked up, Doctor.”  
  
“Clever. Yeah. You’re always so fucking clever. Yeah, I AM getting worked up. I am fairly certain this is something to be worked up over.”  
  
John was fairly sure his head was going to explode and Mrs Hudson would be very cross and Sherlock would be delighted because there would be bone bits and brain bits everywhere and his hands didn’t always shake now so he could prepare the slides, right? He took a deep breath. “So you—the big, protective brother—saw the fucking HANDPRINT your baby brother carved onto his own INNER THIGH by HIMSELF, and you did NOTHING about it?” He was fairly sure that he’d pass out unless he got his breathing under control.  
  
“That is correct.”  
  
“Did you ask him how he got it?” John was a bit concerned that he’d break a tooth he was grinding them so hard.  
  
“There seemed to be no point.”  
  
“Look, you bastard.” John was starting to feel oddly calm now. “The cutting—that is what it is. But this…” His voice gave out for a second. He took another deep breath and pushed on. “This… is _different_. He’s never done anything like that before. And based on the position, it’s fairly obvious what happened.”  
  
“Yes. It is.”  
  
John wanted to reach through his mobile speaker and strangle the man. “So if it was so obvious, why the FUCK didn’t you have someone FIX it?” His breathing was ragged.  
  
“Doctor,” Mycroft hissed. “As you may recall, he was weak. Injured. He wasn’t coherent. He was terrified of the slightest thing. We didn’t dare suggest surgery.”  
  
Damn. John hated it when Mycroft was right. And the bugger was always right. “Yeah, I know,” he sighed in defeat.  
  
“But if you can get him to someone who will fix it now—well, I’m sure he’d go along with whatever you wished.”  
  
“God, I hope so.”  
  
*  
  
“What is it, baby?” John asked in alarm. He had just started to descend when Sherlock had called for him, rather urgently, and he ran the rest of the way down. He took one look at him and nodded, sliding his mobile into his pocket and holding out his hand. “Come on. Daddy will help.” He led him down the hallway to the bathroom.  
  



	48. Chapter 48

The appointment had been horrible.  
  
Part of the problem was that it had been Little Sherlock who had agreed to go with Daddy to the office of the doctor with the funny name to "fix his skin," but of course Little Sherlock didn’t leave the flat, so it was an extremely belligerent Big Sherlock who had made the past two hours of John’s life a misery.  
  
“Sorry,” he had said weakly, glancing over his shoulder at the door. He caught sight of just the tail of the Belstaff as Sherlock barrelled out of the office. “That was not what I was hoping for.”  
  
“It’s all right, John,” his colleague had replied sympathetically. “He’s certainly not the first patient to respond like that.”  
  
“No?” He glanced over his shoulder again, then shrugged. Sherlock would either wait for him outside the building or not at all. He was betting on not at all.  
  
“It’s far from atypical for people in his circumstances.”  
  
“Circumstances?” John echoed, his eyebrows raised.  
  
“Well, yes. Surely you’ve had him to a therapist.”  
  
“Well, actually, no. That suggestion was taken with even less ‘enthusiasm’ than this visit,” John admitted, chagrined.  
  
“I can imagine. But seriously, you do realise that he’s essentially suffering from PTSD.”  
  
John nodded. “Yeah, of course. And I certainly know the course of treatment for most people—myself included. Problem is—”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes is not ‘most people.’”  
  
“Yeah. That. But honestly, Matthew, what do you think you could do for him, at least?”  
  
The plastic surgeon sighed. “We could certainly reduce the scarring to an extent. Never obliterate it entirely, but improve it.”  
  
“All of it?” John asked tightly. He would be eternally grateful for the gracious way Matthew had handled the situation—from John’s explanation of both Sherlock’s circumstances and his condition to the outrageously rude behaviour from the raven-haired man. “All of the cuts, I mean.”  
  
“They’re manageable, more or less.”  
  
“Less?” John drummed his fingers on his knee.  
  
“I wouldn’t suggest any sort of surgery right now, John. He’s not in good shape. Underweight, stressed… I don’t think his frame of mind is quite right.”  
  
John laughed bitterly. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” he admitted.  
  
“Those things will have a negative impact on anything I attempt.”  
  
“Yeah. Yes. I know. But when he’s in better shape, and more willing, do you think it’s worth it?”  
  
“Definitely. He’s not getting any better seeing all that every time he bathes or dresses or…” John was surprised to see the man blush.  
  
“Or…?” he pushed, a bit annoyed.  
  
“I’m a fan, just like thousands of others, John. The cases; your blog. His disappearance and reappearance,” the plastic surgeon pressed on, stumbling a bit on his words.  
  
“And?”  
  
“And… we fans speculate a lot.”  
  
“About?” John clutched the arms of the chair tightly.  
  
“God, John. I’m sorry. This is just a bit awkward. I didn’t know you as well back then, and I admit it. I speculated about whether you and Sherlock Holmes were a couple or not.”  
  
And to his great relief, John suddenly laughed. “Oh, that!” he exclaimed. “God, I thought you were on about the track marks. Erm… okay. Yes. To be perfectly honest—because this is still a conversation with his doctor and therefore confidential—correct?” Matthew nodded. “Yeah. You and thousands of other people were right. I admit that I was in denial before he… went away. I mean, I denied it in public. But do you know what’s funny? Now I have no idea why. I mean, my sister is gay. Sherlock never cared. Our closest friends never cared. I don’t know why I was so hung up on it.”  
  
Matthew smiled. “Damn. Could have won the pool!” he chuckled.  
  
“But we’re not now,” John added suddenly, coming down to earth.  
  
Matthew stopped smiling. “Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. I mean, we’re not a couple. I’m engaged, actually.”  
  
“Really?” The plastic surgeon looked surprised.  
  
“It’s recent. Nurse down at the surgery. Mary.”  
  
“Well. Congratulations.”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks. Listen, I’ve got to get going. I’m hoping Sherlock is either waiting for me outside or at home… his flat. But I never know. He’s been a bit lost lately.”  
  
“And you want to fix him with therapy and plastic surgery,” Matthew considered slowly.  
  
“Among other things. Thanks again. We’ll be in touch. I mean, when I think he’s ready.” John rose and reached his hand over the desk. His fellow doctor shook it and said goodbye.  
  
Matthew sat for a long time, fidgeting with a pen on his desk, wondering if John Watson knew how obvious it was that he was still in love with the famous detective.  
  



	49. Chapter 49

“What can they possibly do to fix them anyway? They’re scars. Won’t surgery just make… more scars?”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot. You _know_ that they can help diminish them. Are you done with those?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and slid the cutting board with the neatly-sliced tomatoes over so John could add them to the cheddar sandwiches.  
  
*  
  
“No.” Sherlock shook his head vehemently.  
  
“Why not?” John asked as calmly as he could. “Give me one solid reason why you won’t get them fixed.”  
  
“I don’t wish to go under anaesthesia.”  
  
“Fair enough. You can have a local anaesthetic and a mild sedative; you don’t actually go all the way under.”  
  
“What if I… reveal state secrets while in that state?”  
  
“I’m sure that Mycroft will have everyone on the surgical and recovery teams sworn to secrecy. He might even sit… listen in just in case.”  
  
*  
  
“There’s no point in having them fixed. No one’s going to see them.”  
  
“Sherlock, I see them.”  
  
“And you said that they do not repel you.”  
  
Damn.  
  
*  
  
“No one _else_ is going see them,” Sherlock added two days later, as if there had been no gap in their conversation.  
  
“What… oh.” John caught the thread of this particular argument as quickly as he could, wondering if, for Sherlock, there had been no gap. He made a mental note to return to that thought. “You don’t know that,” he pointed out.  
  
“I don’t intend to undress in front of anyone else.”  
  
Was John mistaken, or did he sound a bit sad?  
  
*  
  
“Are you still having blackouts?” John asked, very softly.  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock groaned. He was sprawled across the bed. John was perched on the edge of the mattress and was gently rubbing Sherlock’s back and neck. The paracetamol hadn’t kicked in yet and Sherlock’s pinched look and overly-pale face were a bit alarming. The headache had hit him extremely suddenly while they were shopping—Sherlock had determined that John needed some not-plaid shirts.  
  
“I mean you’ve been doing pretty well with the headaches recently, but last week I think you sort of… skipped a few days at one point.”  
  
“I don’t think so…” he replied hesitantly.  
  
“It’s all right to admit it,” his doctor encouraged. “You haven’t had that happen in a while either. I just want to monitor you. So tell me. Have you?”  
  
“Sometimes I’m somewhere and I’m not sure how I got there,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “Or you tell me that I’ve said something and I have no recollection of it. Not often,” he added a bit hastily. “Just occasionally.”  
  
John nodded. “Good job. Thank you for being honest. I do still think you’re getting better. We knew it’d be a slow process. Can I get you anything now?”  
  
“I’m thirsty.”  
  
“All right.” He patted the thin man on his shoulder before heading to the kitchen for some water.  
  
*  
  
“John, go around the back!”  
  
John bolted down the alley and intercepted the suspect trying to get away from Sherlock, who had burst through the front door of the house where the detective had determined he would hit next.  
  
The noise of the shattering pot and subsequent shouting, not to mention the sheer number of police officers and vehicles, drew quite a crowd, and John stood back and smiled proudly as Sherlock began to explain his deductions. He was essentially done when he faltered; stopped speaking. Became pale. John led him quickly away, tugging gently at one trembling hand. “Are you all right?” he murmured into his ear, unnecessarily. Obviously he was not.  
  
“Don’t know,” came the tremulous reply.  
  
“What happened?” John asked softly as soon as he had settled them in the cab.  
  
“There was a man… in the crowd.” Sherlock’s eyes were tightly shut and he was breathing heavily.  
  
“A man? Someone you recognised?”  
  
“I… can’t remember.”  
  
“What was he doing?”  
  
“Watching. Watching _me_. He wants to hurt me.”  
  
John turned partially in his seat so he could pull Sherlock to him. “Okay. It’s all right. He’s not here now. I’m here. I won’t let him hurt you.”  
  
“Keep the bad man away,” Sherlock whispered.  
  
John sighed. “Of course, my sweet boy.”  
  
*  
  
In the bedroom, John gently undid the not-strained buttons of the wine-coloured shirt. He barely had to undo his flies; his trousers slid down mostly of their own volition. “Do you want anything on?” he asked, kissing Sherlock’s cheek.  
  
A shake of the head.  
  
“All right.” He flipped the bedclothes back. “Slide in.” Sherlock did so gratefully; he seemed at the absolute end of his limits. His eyes shut as soon as he dropped his head to the pillow. John bent down and kissed him again, this time on the forehead. “You have a nice nap, and when you wake up, you let me know you’re up, all right? I’ll come and get you dressed, and then we can do whatever you’d like until dinner.”  
  
Sherlock barely nodded, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep.  
  
*  
  
A sound—a cross between a sob and a scream—escaped ex-army captain John Watson’s lips. He sat heavily in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. What the _fuck_ was going on? Sherlock had been going longer and longer between odd moments—times when he didn’t seem to understand what was going on around him; instances when he was clearly experiencing a gap in time. He hadn’t involuntarily slid down since the incident in the park. This had hit him so quickly—and so intensely. Why now?  
  
John considered it. The case had been rather fascinating, involving the most bizarre of circumstances leading to a stolen jewel being stuffed into the bottom of a still-wet hand-thrown pot—it being one of six in the clay-splattered workshop. The efforts of the thief to retrieve it after the pots had been completed and sold had allowed the detective to determine where he would hit next, and John had felt glorious adrenaline rushing through his system as they waited for the suspect to appear and implicate himself.  
  
So it wasn’t the case itself that had thrown his love. It apparently was, as he had revealed, a face in the sizeable crowd that had formed that had gotten him so terribly upset. It had been a while since he had talked about any bad men coming to hurt him. That had John more concerned than anything.  
  
*  
  
Whimpering. Shit. John bolted down the hallway to the bedroom.  
  
“It’s all right, sweet boy. You didn’t mean to. Everything can be washed. Let’s get you cleaned up, all right?”  
  
But his baby boy just whimpered more, rocking and holding the wet bedclothes to himself.  
  
*  
  
As the evening wore on, John became more and more concerned. Sherlock’s behaviour wasn’t like anything he had ever seen before. He wasn’t exactly Little, but he certainly wasn’t himself. He insisted that John check the windows and doors several times, but when the doctor did so, he would shout at him to get away from them; get down before he got hit. John tried to get him to watch the telly, but he became terrified that the noise would obscure the sound of someone slipping over a windowsill and into the flat.  
  
John knew that it was pointless to try to get him to eat a proper meal. He found a tin of pears and slid them into a small dish. His hands were shaking so badly (his entire body was, actually) that John ended up feeding them to him.  
  
Finally, the doctor led him back to the bedroom and tucked him into the freshly-made bed. He didn’t need Sherlock to ask him to slide in next to him; to curl around him protectively. He stroked the dark curls until they both fell asleep.  
  
*  
  
 _“You’re joking. No. I know you’re not.”_  
  
No, John was not joking. At about three o’clock the next morning Sherlock’s ragged breathing had awoken him. He had been lying flat on his back, covered in sweat. John had, of course, left a light on, and his light eyes darted around the room in terror.  
  
“Shhh. It was a dream. I know they can be really frightening, but it was just a dream.”   
  
After a great deal of reassurance, he had finally gotten him to drift off again, but now the older man was wide awake and back to ruminating on their problem. He seemed so certain—so positive that he had seen someone in the crowd. A specific someone. He admitted that he couldn’t remember who it was, but the impact was real. How could John protect him against someone if neither of them even knew who the someone was?  
  
Crowd. Street. Crime in progress.  
  
Cameras.  
  
Right!  
  
John was able to fall asleep again now. He had a plan.  
  
The next morning John made two calls before even starting the kettle.  
  
*  
  
“I appreciate how much it pains you to need a favour from me, Doctor,” Mycroft intoned. John knew his voice well enough to know that he was smiling.  
  
“Well, maybe you won’t be quite so gleeful when I tell you what I need, and why,” John responded dryly.  
  
It took about half an hour, but eventually John received an email with a link to the CCTV footage he had requested—demanded—from the omniscient elder brother. And John had been correct—the government man’s tone had changed rather dramatically when the good doctor described what his baby brother was experiencing.  
  
Now he was speaking with Greg, outlining their project.  
  
No, John was not joking. He had arranged to get the CCTV footage via Mycroft, and he and Greg were going to watch every second of every image they could—they were going to try to see what Sherlock had seen.  
  
*  
  
In the meantime, though, there was Sherlock. Upon waking, it was immediately apparent that he was still deeply shaken by the previous day’s experience. Once again, he was disinclined to speak and terrified of the windows. He positively clung to John, not letting him out of his sight. He flinched at every sound.  
  
John was baffled about what to do with him. He wasn’t truly Little. He didn’t want to play. He didn’t want to colour. He didn’t want to do any of the things that they used to do, it seemed, but he was equally unwilling to do any “grown up” things. The doctor tried cuddles and hugs and reassurances and very small bits of safe food, but the thin man remained on edge and frustrated. Finally, John hit on something.  
  
Sherlock settled down, ensconced in the nest of cushions on the floor that the doctor had created for him. John sat next to him and encouraged the taller man to lie down with his head in his lap. He offered the bottle of milk he had warmed, opened the book he had selected, and began to read:  
  
 _But since the grown-ups were not able to understand it, I made another drawing: I drew the inside of a boa constrictor, so that the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained._  
  
*  
  
“Shit, John, I don’t know. I can get one of our profilers to take a look.” Greg sounded doubtful.  
  
“I’d rather not have this spread any further than necessary.”  
  
“We’ve watched it three times. How the hell are we supposed to know who we’re looking for? We don’t even know if there really _was_ a man. He could have been seeing things.” The DI rubbed his thumb between his eyes; he was getting a headache.  
  
“I don’t know. He’s been pretty lucid lately. He’s clean. He wasn’t any more sleep- or food-deprived than usual on a case. I just don’t want to take any chances.”  
  
Greg rose and stretched; his back was tight from hunching over the laptop, side by side with the doctor. “No, I get it. I just wish we could ask him.”  
  
They both knew that that was out of the question. And so, with gritted teeth, John had made another call.  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry, John, but I’m far too busy. I realise that this is important, but we’re dealing with terrorist attacks and sometimes the needs of the many… well, you know.”  
  
“Yeah. I know.” John did understand. No matter how loyal he was to Sherlock; no matter how concerned, he did understand issues of international terrorism. Innocent lives were being lost.  
  
“I do have a suggestion,” Mycroft added, startling the doctor. “You might ask our parents.”  
  
“Your mum and dad? Why?”  
  
“We inherited our academic intelligence from our mother, but our father is the one with the observational skills. Not as keen as Sherlock’s or mine, of course, but he is very good with people and faces.”  
  
“Do you think they’d be willing?”  
  
“They just want their son to be all right. They will do whatever that takes.”  
  
*  
  
“I can’t just ring them up and—you know— ‘Hi, we’ve never spoken before but I’m your son’s ex and would you take a look at some video to figure out which man is terrorising your son?’”  
  
“Why not?” Greg commented around a large bite of his bacon butty with egg. He had considered having a salad for lunch—really he had—but whenever he did that he ended up eating absolute crap for supper, so he figured he might as well face the problem head-on. That and it had been quick and cheap and far more satisfying than some rabbit food. “With sons like that, I strongly suspect they’re not easily surprised.”  
  
“True. Still… oh! I know. How about…”  
  
*  
  
“Mr Holmes? John Watson. Oh, fine… no, he’s all right. I was just wondering—I know this may sound a bit odd, but I’d… that is, Mary and I—my fiancée and I—would like to have you over for dinner.”  
  
*  
  
“I’m excited. What should I make? Oh! I saw a recipe for a roast chicken—with herbs and whatnot, and a porcini butter that you smear under the skin.”  
  
“I’m sure they’ll love whatever you make.”  
  
She reached for her iPad and soon had the recipe in front of her. “Here we go. I’ll need rosemary, thyme…”  
  
John left her planning the menu at the kitchen table; he sat back on the sofa and texted Greg.  
  
Later, when John was in the shower, Mary dug out her second mobile.  
  
 _Going to meet the parents_  
  
 _Why?_  
  
 _Dig for more weaknesses. Maybe hold them hostage._  
  
 _How sweet._  
  
*  
  
“Can you stay with him, just for one night? He feels safe with you.”  
  
“Yeah. That’s fine. What about Mrs Hudson?” Greg asked, signalling the constable at the door to his office to give him a moment.  
  
“He trusts her, but he’s frightened that something will happen to her, and it’d be his fault.”  
  
“Ah. All right. I’ll come by around five.”  
  
“Can you make it a bit earlier? I’ve got to help Mary with the dinner.”  
  
*  
  
“Hey, Sherlock,” Greg said easily, hanging up his coat.  
  
The dark-haired man stared at him. He was curled up on the sofa with a book; or he had been. Now he was sitting up tensely, perched at the edge of the cushions, clearly ready to escape.  
  
“Sherlock, it’s fine. It’s Greg. Lestrade. Settle down.” John came out into the sitting room from the kitchen and accepted the sack offered to him to inspect.  
  
*  
  
John patiently started unwrapping Sherlock’s fingers from his belt, which he had grabbed in panic as he prepared to head out. “You’ll be all right,” he said firmly. “Greg got all sorts of horrible junk food for you, and you can watch whatever you want, and then you’re going to let him put you to bed.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head hard. He was too frightened to speak.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart. You’ll be safe. You know that Greg won’t let anything happen to you. If anything happened, he’d have to do all sorts of paperwork and you know how he hates that.” John somehow managed to make his tone light and teasing. It worked. The thin man allowed his grip on the worn leather to loosen a bit. “All right? I have to go now, but I’ll be back in the morning.” John straightened up and headed out before he lost his resolve.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, my,” Mummy Holmes murmured as she sank into the luxurious seat of the car that Mycroft had sent. “This is quite nice.”  
  
“Lovely,” Dad agreed.  
  
“Are we ready for this?” she murmured. “I’m not entirely sure how I feel about meeting the fiancée of the man who broke our sweet boy’s heart.”  
  
“It wasn’t entirely John’s fault,” he chided her gently.  
  
“No, I suppose not. Do I look all right?” She smoothed the front of her new blouse.  
  
“You always look lovely, my dear.”  
  
“Flatterer.”  
  
*  
  
Greg dumped the various packets of crisps and some sort of fairy cakes iced an alarming orange and bottles of Tizer on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa. He discreetly turned his attention to a few DVDs scattered across the table while John convinced Sherlock to allow him to leave. Finally, he had him all to himself. He took a deep breath. “Do you want to watch something?” he asked. The younger man shook his head. “Okay. Come sit down and have some of this.”  
  
Sherlock, amazingly, did so, dropping to the sofa and poking at the brightly-coloured packets. He seemed to be taking the decision-making very seriously, looking at each and murmuring to himself under his breath. Finally, he held one up, showing it hopefully to the grey-haired man who was reading—in some horror—the ingredients of the treats he had purchased.  
  
“That one? Okay. Can you open it yourself?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and efficiently got the packet open. Greg only had to get up and check the windows and doors five times in the next hour, and they both went down and checked on Mrs Hudson once. Not bad.  
  
*  
  
“It looks great,” John commented as Mary put the finishing touches to the table settings. “And that chicken smells fantastic.” He lifted the lid of one of the pots on the cooker and his face fell the tiniest bit.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Mary demanded.  
  
“Nothing. It all looks wonderful.”  
  
He re-covered the carrot-and-pea mix.  
  
*  
  
“Well, that was an interesting evening,” Mrs Holmes commented as she settled back into the comfortable seat again.  
  
“That’s not the word that comes to my mind,” her husband commented, “but I wouldn’t say the one that does with a lady present.”  
  
“Oh, bosh. Go ahead and say it—or I will.”  
  
Mr Holmes looked at his wife in bemusement. Married so many years and she still could surprise him. “You, my dear?”  
  
“It was a bloody nightmare.”  
  
It had been. They had strongly suspected that John’s awkward and unlikely invitation had had an ulterior motive, but neither of them was prepared for what unfolded. It had started innocuously enough. John had greeted them at the door and ushered them in. Although they had never met formally, there didn’t seem to be a need for introductions. The elder Holmeses in particular felt as if they knew John intimately. Both of them read his blog. They gleaned information from Mycroft’s (heavily redacted) descriptions of Sherlock’s activities. They absorbed the news stories and photos.  
  
They even, on rare occasions, heard from Sherlock himself.  
  
Well, they had. That was before—  
  
before his fall.  
  
They both still felt horribly guilty about it all. They knew what was going to happen, of course, but they didn’t know when or exactly how, and they both admitted to being struck with sheer terror and grief when the news broke. Mycroft let them know as soon as he could, of course, that everything had gone according to plan, but it was a horrifying time, not being certain.  
  
Their guilt compounded when they did not attend their younger son’s “funeral,” but all “in the know” had agreed that it would simply be too much for them—not pretending that Sherlock was dead, but hiding the fact that they were worried sick about him being alive.  
  
At first, Mycroft had given them regular if brief and sometimes mysterious updates. He was deliberately obscuring his brother’s actual locations and would only touch on his activities, but he did at that point regularly assure them that Sherlock was well and doing what was needed of him.  
  
After a few months, his reports became even sketchier, and eventually, they stopped.  
  
“He’s gone very deep undercover,” the government man explained primly.  
  
They knew not to inquire.  
  
It wasn’t easy, of course. Over and over again, one or the other would reach for their phone, only to be stopped with the gentle application of a loving hand.  
  
“Leave it, my love,” Mr Holmes would murmur.  
  
“If there was news, I’m sure he’d phone,” Mrs Holmes observed.  
  
And so it had gone on. Fortunately, for the most part they had been left alone by the press—just a few interviews, during which they expressed their awe of their famous son’s deductive powers and mourned his loss—and that was all they offered. With no fuel for juicy stories, the reporters eventually lost interest in them.  
  
They did get updates—dry and perfunctory as they were—on John, and it was those stories that almost had them breaking their resolve.   
  
Of course they had known about his and Sherlock’s relationship. They had absolutely no problem with it. In fact, they had been delighted that their mercurial offspring had finally found someone who delighted and fascinated and stood up to him and truly loved him. They knew that Mycroft spared them many of the more _intimate_ details, which was just fine with them.  
  
“He’s put on some weight, finally,” Dad had noted, enjoying the latest press event.  
  
“He could smile a bit,” Mummy grumped, peering at the monitor through her glasses.  
  
“You know how he is about crowds.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
They had occasionally heard from the great detective himself. In the past he had generally emailed them; the messages were either fewer than twenty words or more than a few thousand—he apparently couldn’t write to them any other way. The short messages were often rather baffling. The long ones were often rather disturbing, and often sent in the dark hours before dawn.  
  
And then John was there, and the short messages still often didn’t make much sense (Mummy’s favourite, which she had printed out and tucked into a scrapbook, read “Are women really so fond of diamonds they would kill for them? How do you make Welsh rarebit?”) but they were for the most part more upbeat than they had been.  
  
The long messages then were usually permeated with evidence of the doctor’s presence. At first, he had simply shared his observations of his new flatmate—including a rather gleeful list of books and medical supplies now readily available to him. He would occasionally mention cases, but mixed with references to wheelbarrows and forged paintings and elephants, there were more and more frequent phrases such as “John has secured work at a local surgery—seems dull,” “John made a very nice pasta with nutmeg in the sauce,” and “John put up some family photos in his bedroom. Should I do that? Do I want to do that? Why would I want to do that?”  
  
For only the second time in his life, Sherlock had seemed interested in another human being.  
  
“You must read this one,” Dad had called out one morning. He had been checking emails over his second cup of coffee. “I think our boy is sweet on someone.”  
  
“Oh?” Mummy had leaned over his shoulder and quickly absorbed the lengthy message. “Oh, my. Apparently so.”  
  
Because now it was “John understands about peas and carrots,” and “John and I went shopping; he needs nicer clothes,” and finally “John only snores when he’s been drinking; is that normal?”  
  
So clearly they were now more than just flatmates and that was fine. It was more than fine, really. Sherlock was being taken care of and was endlessly fascinated by “his” John (he sometimes referred to him as “my John” in his emails, which they found adorable) and he praised him constantly. They really were a bit desperate to meet the man, but knew better than to force the issue.  
  
And then everything fell apart.  
  
Sometimes it was terribly difficult being the parents of two such unique men. Mummy got a bit weepy about it sometimes and Dad would hold her and pat her back. Both of them—more than anyone, really—knew it was just the way they were. They had hardly been average children. No. Not even close.  
  
Both so brilliant. Both so talented.  
  
Both so easily bored.  
  
Both clearly unlikely, at this point, to provide grandchildren. That was fine.   
  
That was really nothing in comparison to what one expected the other to provide now.  
  
Yes, Mycroft had known how dangerous it would be for his baby brother. Sherlock had known as well. And they had gone ahead with the plan anyway, and for all that it was just “pretend” neither had been completely convinced that their sweet boy (because when he was tiny he truly could be sweet and no one who knew him just as an adult would believe how lovely and affectionate he had been with them; how much he admired and emulated his big brother) was ever going to come home.  
  
He wasn’t supposed to be in contact with them at all—Mycroft’s rules. Even though they knew he was alive and travelling around the globe, they could not expect anything—not a call; not an email. It was too dangerous, Mycroft had explained. He would be undercover and couldn’t risk being exposed.  
  
Of course, this was Sherlock, and of course he found a way around his elder brother’s rules. He would send “friend” requests to his mum on a popular social website under different names, but ingeniously always worked his birthday into them (always as mathematical problems) so she knew that they were from him, and from that would get a new email to her, and for a brief time they would receive messages—still in his short-or-long pattern. Then that “e-ddress” (as he termed them) would be terminated and they would eagerly await the new one.  
  
That system lasted for quite a while, even though each message was more and more alarming. Their precious, sweet boy started out so strong, but as time went by, his messages made less and less sense. It actually became somewhat terrifying. It was obvious that he was sometimes lost in time and place; confused and lonesome and not taking care of himself—and they daren’t tell Mycroft.  
  
And then the messages stopped, and it was as if he had really, truly died this time, and they honestly didn’t know for sure if he was alive until he finally resurfaced—broken, damaged, confused—but he was still their sweet boy.  
  
They knew he was still getting confused, although he’d been getting better and better as time went by. They knew that he was finally working a bit. They knew that John was back in his life in some fashion. Everything seemed to be looking up. Well, if they overlooked the “John’s engaged to a woman” bit.  
  
And then John had phoned and that night had showed both of them the footage of the crowd and they searched and searched for whoever was likeliest to have caused such a panic. Dad—who really was rather brilliant with people and faces—had identified three possibilities and John got very excited about it; he promised to contact them if anything came of it.  
  
John was as wonderful and lovely and funny and strong as Sherlock had described.  
  
Now if only he would get his act together and dump that horrid fiancée.   
  
Because really—a doctor marrying someone who clearly was not who she said she was? It seemed a bit rummy.  
  
*  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me what they were really here for?” Mary demanded as she somewhat violently did the washing up.  
  
“I…” John stopped. He was drawing a complete blank. Why hadn’t he told Mary? He obviously knew that she’d be there.  
  
“Oh, John. Sherlock’s got you wrapped around his little finger, doesn’t he?”  
  
“No,” he protested quietly. “It’s not like that. It’s… I have no idea why I didn’t tell you.”  
  
“You’re exhausted—looking after that mad man. Time for bed.”  
  
John dropped into the bed. He was exhausted, but not for the reason Mary thought. He was wiped out from just the few hours that afternoon and evening pretending that he was just having friends over for dinner; pretending that he was just an ordinary doctor and dinner host and man—pretending that he belonged there in Mary’s home. He was relieved that Mary didn’t come to bed immediately.  
  
*  
  
 _That idiot Moran nearly got spotted_ , she texted from the safety of the bathroom; she had locked the door even though she was fairly sure that John was too tired to come looking for her. He looked worn out, she had noted. He needed a good night’s sleep and a proper full English in the morning. Lord knew how much sleep he got all those nights he spent in Baker Street.  
  
 _How nearly?_  
  
 _He’s one of the three they picked as most likely._  
  
 _I’ll deal with him. How is he?_  
  
She nearly responded _He’s sleeping_ until she realised who he meant. _He’s a mess,_ she replied instead. _Memory loss. Paranoia._  
  
 _Good. They might decide he’s hallucinating after all._  
  
 _He’s really screwed up. What did you do to him?_  
  
 _If you value your existence, you will NEVER ask that again._  
  
Shaken, she shut off and hid her mobile and got ready for bed.  
  
*  
  
“Come on, Sherlock. John won’t like it if I let you stay up too late.”  
  
Greg wasn’t sure if John had gotten him changed into pyjamas before he arrived or if he hadn’t been dressed all day. Either way, he didn’t have to deal with it, for which he was grateful. He was, however, insistent on using the loo and brushing teeth, and Sherlock had complied quietly. Now he guided him into the bedroom.  
  
“Oh, for… what happened in here?” The DI sighed, bent over, retrieved the bedding from the floor, and resolutely began to make up the bare bed. “All right now. Jump in.”  
  
Sherlock crept under the covers. He was starting to get tense again, glancing over at the window several times.  
  
“It’s all right,” the older man reassured him. “I’m not going to let anyone near you. Budge over.”  
  
He fell asleep leaning up against the headboard, his arm wrapped protectively around the younger man’s shoulders.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince


	50. Chapter 50

John scrubbed his hand over his face. He had been everything that Sherlock needed—doctor, friend, nursemaid—for days now, and hadn’t begrudged him one second of it. It was just—tiring. No uninterrupted nights. Not one meal without an argument. Constantly changing his approach depending on the younger man’s mood. Add to that his constant wondering how Lestrade was doing on the identity of the face in the crowd and dealing with Mary wanting him to come home, and John Watson had had enough.  
  
And then, completely unexpectedly, Mycroft had popped in.  
  
John had glanced at Sherlock, who was, at that moment, curled up on the sofa with a book. It had been an unpredictable morning. Neither of them had slept well—Sherlock kept waking and checking the window, and John kept waking and checking on Sherlock. Breakfast had been a somewhat ridiculous argument about eggs ending in John allowing Sherlock to have two biscuits instead. Apparently putting on clothing was also an issue, and once again John had acquiesced and allowed the younger man to remain in his worn, baggy sleep clothes and a dressing gown.  
  
Despite the appearance of leisure, though, Sherlock was anything but relaxed. He hovered between states—sometimes hyper-alert and panicking about the windows and sometimes fussing about ordinary ridiculous-consulting-detective issues—and all John wanted at that moment was for him to take a nap so he could do the washing up and figure out what he could make for lunch that wouldn’t set him off.  
  
And now there was Mycroft, impeccably groomed and outwardly calm and collected, as always.  
  
John glanced around the flat. It was a disaster; as quickly as he tidied, Sherlock scattered and cluttered and generally made a mess, and it was the oddest collection of items. Test tubes and horrific crime-scene photos vied for space with sheet music and some recently-acquired markers (and of course Sherlock had drawn on a wall with them and Mrs Hudson had made it abundantly clear that that was A Bit Not Good).  
  
John greeted Mycroft’s entrance with a groan, and Sherlock frowned at him, not in ire for once, but in concern.  
  
“John, are you ill? You’ve been off all day and you look quite tired. Mycroft, go away so John can rest.”  
  
“I’m all right,” John protested, even whilst feeling extremely gratified that he had noticed how he was feeling.  
  
“You do look rather peaked,” the government man agreed mildly, his eyes sweeping around the sitting room. They rested briefly on a crayoned picture that clearly depicted a crime scene, complete with circles and arrows and a paragraph explaining what each feature implied.  
  
“So why are you here?” John asked tiredly as he plugged in the kettle. He needed tea. Lots and lots of tea. He would be polite and offer some to their guest and make chamomile for his boy, maybe with a little something to nibble on, and then a kip… he was wool-gathering and Mycroft was talking. Oh.  
  
“… luncheon on the twentieth…”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Brother mine, you’ve misunderstood. This is not an option. You will be there.”  
  
“Can John come?”  
  
Mycroft sighed, more in amusement than exasperation for once. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you there otherwise.”  
  
“You… wait. That was…” Sherlock was having trouble parsing exactly what sort of insult his big brother had just inflicted on him.  
  
“So I _am_ your brother’s keeper?” John interceded. Sherlock shot him a grateful look.  
  
“As always, with my deepest appreciation, Doctor,” was the supercilious response.  
  
Really? Did they give some sort of award for ponciest dickhead? Because even with Sherlock fairly far ahead, Mycroft would win every time. “Tea?” he managed. “And no, we will not be attending a luncheon on the twentieth.”  
  
“Very well. I must be off. Work, of course.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
John did not offer to show him out. Instead, he ensured that the door to the hallway was firmly shut before leaning down and cupping Sherlock’s chin in his hand, so he could look into his eyes. “Now, my love, I’ve got a lovely orange for you with your tea,” he informed him. “Eat it all and then a nap, all right?”  
  
*  
  
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” John asked for the third time in fifteen minutes. Mary had phoned him from the surgery. He had been horribly erratic about his hours lately, but now they were somewhat desperate and he felt awful for not being better about it. He had cleaned himself up and dressed and was now putting on his jacket and hunting for his wallet and keys.  
  
“I will be fine. Honestly. Go… make people better.”  
  
John smiled at this—more at the grumbly tone than the actual words—and, thus assured, felt that it was safe to head out.  
  
He could not have been more wrong.  
  



	51. Chapter 51

There he was he was there he was really there it was not in his head what was in his head?  
  
That man. He knew that man. He couldn’t remember how or why or from where or anything else, but he knew that face—  
  
And that face terrified him.  
  
He had shoved John’s laptop off the desk and taken refuge on the sofa, holding one of the cushions so tightly that his fingers were gradually losing sensation. It wasn’t his fault—not really. He had wanted to look up something (what had he wanted to look up? He couldn’t recall now except that it had something to do with colours) and had gotten distracted. John had a large file on his hard drive—a video file.  
  
Curious, Sherlock had opened it.  
  
Watched it.  
  
And now he felt ill and cold and hot and was trembling and whimpering and wanting—  
  
Needing—  
  
And then the whimpering stopped and he knew what he wanted and needed and it was so simple really and he strode purposely towards the bathroom and was so grateful that razor blades were so thin; John was good at finding his hiding places but one razor on the back of a tile was really so difficult to detect that he almost missed it himself at first.  
  
Why was it so difficult?  
  
Why did it hurt so much?  
  
Odd not normal not typical the sound it made was like what was it like? Like dragging a knife through a cardboard box. Dry and thick and hard and papery—  
  
Then the familiar, warm, red—  
  
Finally  
  
Finally, it was something that he could understand.  
  
*  
  
“Sherlock?” John called out as soon as he came in, already slipping off his jacket and shoes. He was knackered and so pleased to be home. The surgery had been flooded with patients suffering from a stomach virus—and John wasn’t too tired to appreciate his own pun whilst also commiserating with the cleaning people. He hadn’t been able to do anything for anyone beyond treating their symptoms, of course, and was sick of hearing himself discussing crackers and fizzy ginger drinks, and he was so very, very happy to be home.  
  
Home.  
  
No, John. Not home to you. Not anymore. Right.  
  
“Sherlock?” he called out again, his bright mood deflating the tiniest bit. “You all right?” He poked his head around the corner—no evidence of untoward activities in the kitchen. That was a pleasant change, but his concern obviated that. Ah. Bedroom door was almost shut. He walked briskly down the hallway and into the bedroom. He was eager to change his clothing.  
  
“Sherlock?” he murmured into the darkened room.  
  
“John?” The deep voice was muffled; he must have just woken up.  
  
“You all right? Having a sleep?” He sat on the bed and reached out to pat him on the hip.  
  
Sherlock flinched.  
  
“What’s the matter?” He was immediately in alert mode. “Do you feel all right?”  
  
“I’m fine,” came the less-than-reassuring reply. “Go away.”  
  
“No. What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing. I’m trying to sleep. Go away.”  
  
“Do you want anything?” he pursued.  
  
“No. GO AWAY.” The thin man tried to roll from his side to his stomach. The gasp of pain seared through John like a lightning strike.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he demanded again.  
  
“NOTHING!”  
  
Oh, that tone. _He protests too much_. “Bullshit,” he responded. “What did you do?” Firmly, he rolled the thin man onto his back. Sherlock grunted and tried to roll away again, refusing to make eye contact. “Stop it,” he reprimanded. “What did you do?” Oh, God. What _did_ he do? The sudden realisation felt like a physical blow. His trousers were soaked with blood.   
  
*  
  
Oh, God, my love. Keep calm. Don’t think about how much it had to have hurt. Don’t look at his face. Not right now. He had to collect himself and get his kit and get it all cleaned up; disinfectant and stitches or glue at the very least. Bandage it up well. But… no. It wasn’t working. He just couldn’t do it, so John Watson gave up on being a doctor for a moment and gathered his darling up in his arms and…  
  
Because Sherlock had apparently intended to remove the horrid handprint carved into his skin, and he had carefully slit the scarred skin of his inner thigh all around the mark—each individual finger, now outlined in livid red.  
  
“Oh, sweetheart.”  
  
All John wanted to do was rock him.  
  
*  
  
“Let go,” Sherlock demanded.  
  
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he replied, releasing him and clearing his throat with difficulty.  
  
“I can manage, Doctor.”  
  
“No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”  
  
“I said I can manage. Would you please get out?”  
  
“I’m not comfortable—”  
  
“I don’t _care_ whether or not you’re comfortable. I managed on my own for two years and I wish for you to get OUT,” the dark-haired man spat out, his eyes flashing in fury.  
  
“Oh, I can see how well you managed,” John remarked sarcastically. “All those cuts just some sort of tribal initiation, then? Ritual knife?” He indicated the razor, which had been tossed carelessly on the bedside table.  
  
“I said GET OUT!” the thin man roared.  
  
But John didn’t flinch, even when he blocked him as he lunged for the blade.  
  
*  
  
So now, a week later, they were back where they had started.  
  
“It’s not healthy for you to see them—every time you dress; every time you bathe.”  
  
“I don’t look,” Sherlock attempted.  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
“Language, John.”  
  
“That’s utter crap. I know for a fact that you see them. Touch them. You can’t possibly wash yourself without feeling them.”  
  
“Go away.” *  
  
“I don’t want to waste time recovering from surgery. I’m finally getting some interesting clients.”  
  
“We’re going to get you good and healthy beforehand so you’ll heal quickly.”  
  
Sherlock rather pointedly stopped eating his salad.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock, who had been leaning forward rather intently in his chair, flopped back into it, huffing dramatically. “This is getting us nowhere,” he grumbled.  
  
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” John snarled back. He was so very, very tired of this conversation. He had tried everything he could think of. They had discussed it endlessly—while at dinner; while in cabs. They had argued over takeaway in the flat. They had argued via text when John was at work. They had outright shouted at one another one particularly difficult evening—until Mrs Hudson stormed up the stairs and reprimanded both of them.  
  
They were both exhausted.  
  
“All right. You know what? Let’s forget it for a while. Come eat your dinner.” He put the small plate with a nice chicken breast—well, a few slices of one—on it onto the table and added a bowl of sliced, steamed carrots to which he had added a touch of honey.  
  
“Not hungry,” Sherlock shrugged. He rose gracefully and began to peruse the bookshelves. John watched as he chose a tome, withdrew it, and returned to his chair.  
  
“Really? You didn’t have any lunch.”  
  
“DAMN IT, JOHN! Can’t you just LET IT GO for once?!”  
  
John wondered if avoiding thrown books was an Olympic event. He would surely take the gold at this point. “Fine,” he said coldly.  
  



	52. Chapter 52

“No. Done.” With one hand, John slammed the plate with the uneaten dinner onto the counter so hard it was surprising that it didn’t break. The other hand pressed his mobile to his ear. He listened impatiently as he grabbed his coat. “No. I don’t care. He’s your brother and it’s your bloody fault that he’s in this state.” He listened again. “He’s bloody _broken_ , Mycroft! And I can’t fix him. You can’t expect me to.” He rolled his eyes as he listened again. “Right now? Right now he’s sulking on the sofa.”  
  
He paused, glancing around the room. He spotted his keys and grabbed them. “What he needs is a few months in a nice, quiet place. I can personally recommend one. And while he’s there, you can call on the best psychiatric doctors in the country to come unravel him because I. Bloody. Can’t.”  
  
He rang off with a vicious stab of his finger, yanked his coat on, and shoved his keys into his pocket.  
  
And nearly lost his resolve.  
  
No. He had to do this. He was absolutely at his limit. Mycroft had been the one to break him; Mycroft would have to be the one to fix him.  
  
He marched over to the sofa. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going?” he demanded.  
  
“I’m going home to Mary. All we’ve been doing is arguing and I need a break. I told you that.”  
  
“I said that I was sorry,” the detective pouted.  
  
“I know. I just need a break.”  
  
Sherlock turned over abruptly, burying his face in the back of the sofa.  
  
“If you need anything, ask Mrs Hudson or call your brother.”  
  
No reply.  
  
“I’m headed out now.”  
  
Not a sound.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
He left.  
  
*  
  
Why did John have to make such a fuss about everything? Yes, they’d been arguing quite a bit, but it wasn’t his fault. He was frustrated. He did understand that he still wasn’t quite himself. He was—well, he was inside himself, wasn’t he? He knew more than anyone what was going on in his head. Or what wasn’t going on. He wasn’t sure. That was the trouble, really. There was still a great deal that he wasn’t sure about. In fact, things were rather horribly jumbled at times.  
  
Not all the time. Over the past several months, every day he had felt more and more grounded; in the present. He knew that he was in London, now, all the time. He had reconnected with his homeless network; he ate at Angelo’s and conferred with experts at the museums and detested the Tube.  
  
He could now recall who his tailor was.  
  
So that bit was all right.  
  
He rarely spoke in French (except in his sleep, apparently) or German or… or did he? When he did, he usually wasn’t aware of it until someone gave him that look—the one that implied that he was mad. He hadn’t seen that look in a bit, so maybe he was all right.  
  
C’est bien.  
  
He still didn’t seem to have many clients, but that was all right. He would never admit it to anyone, but he found himself so very easily tired. He slept a great deal. At least, he thought he was sleeping. There were gaps in time that felt almost like sleep.  
  
His head still hurt sometimes. Not often. John would give him something for it. He supposed that the headaches would eventually stop altogether.  
  
So things weren’t that bad, were they? Everything was back to normal (for him, anyway). Wasn’t that right?  
  
Well, yes, there was the matter of the assassin and the hunter and his mortal enemy still out there.  
  
So, _almost_ back to normal.  
  
He didn’t care. John would be back in a week, bored out of his mind.  
  
*  
  
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been neglecting you horribly. Please say you forgive me.”  
  
“Of course, John. You are such a good man and such a good friend to him. Now, come and get comfortable and I’ll make us something lovely to eat, all right?”  
  
She walked into the kitchen, then called over her shoulder, “I can’t wait to tell you about the new nurse.”  
  
“Yeah?” He had followed her and now wrapped his arms around her, smiling tiredly. “What about her?”  
  
*  
  
Ha. Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes.  
  
John came back to me.  
  
And she hadn’t even had to pull her trump card, which was a good thing because faking a positive pregnancy test was easy enough; faking the symptoms of early pregnancy was also a piece of cake. The problem was beyond the first few months. What if she had to take it that far?  
  
And then there was Sherlock.  
  
She might be able to fool John for a while—sure he was a doctor but he was also a man and therefore woefully unobservant of some things—  
  
But she never could have possibly fooled Sherlock.  
  
*  
  
Dark. It was dark in the flat and it frightened him.  
  



	53. Chapter 53

“How’s the family?” John asked Mike Stamford heartily. They had met for a rare night out and John was determined that it would be light-hearted. Entertaining. A break.  
  
He had not seen, spoken to, or received a text from Sherlock since he had walked out. He had made it crystal clear to Mary that he did not wish to talk about the man—at all. She had clearly found it difficult to hold her tongue, and on more than one occasion, much to his irritation, she had drawn him into a conversation about him—what do you think he’s doing? Is he working? Does he leave the flat? Does his brother still have him under surveillance? Is he still having headaches? Do you think he’s hallucinating?  
  
John had had enough of that, too—because even after she stopped musing aloud, he continued her line of questioning in his head.  
  
Was he eating?  
  
Was he sleeping?  
  
Was he using?  
  
Was he cutting?  
  
Was he waking up crying?  
  
“So, any good ‘I can’t believe how idiotic these students are’ stories?” he prodded his mate. “I could use a laugh.”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock felt himself falling—  
  
falling—  
  
And now he knew why they called it falling in love—  
  
it was terrifying  
  
*  
  
“Any progress?”  
  
Greg sighed. “None. It doesn’t really make any sense. Facial recognition technology is really fucking amazing. We know which of the three possibilities it is now, but we can’t figure out who the hell he is. It’s like he never existed before.”  
  
“Damn. Maybe Mycroft’s got more time now.”  
  
*  
  
“Excellent job,” he praised. The young man standing in front of him blushed slightly—a compliment from Mycroft Holmes was so rare as to be rather unbelievable. “So is he still in the country?”  
  
*  
  
“What the fuck do you want?” John glared at the fastidious man seated in the back of the black car that had pulled up just as he was leaving work.  
  
“Please, Doctor. Manners.”  
  
“Okay,” he hissed through his clenched jaw. “What the fuck do you want, _sir_?”  
  
“I’d keep my clever quips to myself, Dr Watson, get into the car, and let me tell you what I’ve discovered.”  
  
John felt his heart begin to pound. “Have you identified him? Have you _found_ him?” He slid quickly into the car and slammed the door.  
  
“Yes, actually, I have. Well, at least I’ve learned a few of his most recent identities and last known location.”  
  
“So… who the hell is he? Did Sherlock really recognise him from when he was… away?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft sighed. “I’m afraid my little brother was not mistaken. The man in the crowd is known by several aliases. He started his career as a hired killer—a sharp shooter; fairly straightforward—but eventually gained a reputation as more of a—tracker—for lack of a more precise term. Not just a clumsy hired gun. He’s become known for following targets for months, even years, before they’re killed.”  
  
John’s face fell. He apprehended exactly what the older Holmes was implying. “Years,” he echoed a bit hollowly. “And then what does he… I mean, he targets them…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not in reference to Sherlock.  
  
“Interestingly, Doctor, he actually does not do the killing himself—not anymore, that is. He makes the arrangements, but does not usually pull the trigger.”  
  
“That’s a bit… weird.” John’s puzzlement was good; it was distracting him from the pain in his chest.  
  
“Well, I don’t think it’s because he’s developed a conscience or anything ridiculous like that. I suspect it has more to do with being…” Mycroft paused, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable.  
  
“Being _what_?” John demanded. “What is this fucker _doing_?”  
  
Mycroft took a breath and, regaining his composure, picked an invisible bit of lint off his jacket sleeve. “He’s killed at least two dozen people with a long-range rifle, that we know of,” he commented, almost casually. “But that wasn’t personal enough—not _intimate_ enough. So now when he arranges a… ‘hit,’ he wants to be right at the centre of things. Up close and personal—I imagine so he can see into their eyes.”  
  
John felt himself grow pale. “You mean…”  
  
“Yes. If this man ever offers to shake your hand, I would decline.”  
  
*  
  
“So, who’s going to tell him?” Greg demanded. He shut the door to his office firmly, his phone pressed to his ear. “And what?”  
  
“It’s up to Mycroft, isn’t it? This guy’s an international assassin. Not quite your division—sorry. He’s got more information than we do, anyway, and I’m sure there’s all sorts of official confidential crap about what he can and can’t say,” John reasoned, closing the door to the bedroom.  
  
“Good point. But he already told you that he doesn’t want to be the one to tell him. Can we make him do it?”  
  
John snickered. “Make _Mycroft Holmes_ do something? You’re mad.” Then he sobered. “No, you’re right. We can’t make him do or say anything. He’s not sure how Sherlock would react. I’m not sure, either,” he admitted.  
  
“Well, I think at the very least his brother could tell him that he wasn’t hallucinating—that he really did recognise that man in the crowd, and he really is someone to be frightened of.”  
  
“How’s that going to help? ‘Good news, Sherlock. You were right about being scared shitless. Let’s have dinner.’” John laughed humourlessly.  
  
“Shit,” Greg grunted in agreement. “Yeah. I get that, but it’s got to be better for him to know that he was right and that he is in actual danger? Or… Christ, John, I don’t know! His brother’s the big government man—and he’s his _brother_ —he’s got to be the one to tell him about it.” He drummed his fingers on his desk, hard.  
  
“Okay,” the doctor sighed. “Yeah. Now, how to we convince Umbrella-Up-His-Arse?”  
  
“I suppose reasoning with him is out of the question.” Greg stared out his office window at nothing, too tense to enjoy John’s comment.  
  
“Now you really are being funny,” the doctor sighed. He had been pacing in the bit of floor space available between the bed and the bureau, but now he stopped. “Oh!” he exclaimed.  
  
“Yeah?” the DI prodded eagerly.  
  
“How idiotic are we both being?”  
  
“Probably really idiotic?” It wouldn’t be the first time when it came to dealing with the Holmeses… “Oh, right! You mean that his parents should talk to him.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
*  
  
 _You idiot. You’ve been spotted. Get out of the country now. Head east._  
  
 _As?_  
  
 _Use Bert. And you might consider apologising before I make it impossible._  
  
 _Sorry boss_  
  
*  
  
Oh, thank God. That great lumbering oaf Moran was finally out from underfoot. How incredibly stupid had that been—being captured on camera at one of Sherlock’s crime scenes? The boss had to be livid.  
  
Mary crept away from the bedroom door seconds before John opened it; she really wanted to dance instead.  
  
*  
  
“Mike! What are you saying—”  
  
“‘Mycroft’ is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end.”  
  
“Never mind that!” Mummy Holmes hissed, glaring at him. “Somebody wants to put a bullet in my boy. Who is it?”  
  
“I can’t actually tell you,” their older son sighed.  
  
“Then what _are_ you telling us? And why haven’t you told your brother? He’s the one in danger.”  
  
“I mean that this man goes under many aliases and identities. He must know by now that he’s been spotted. He’s become someone completely different by now, and we’re positive he’s left the country for the time being, at least.”  
  
“So Sherlock is safe?” their father chimed in. “For now, at least?”  
  
“Yes, I think so. This game’s been going on for well over two years, and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is the game master isn’t quite ready to end it.”  
  
“So you don’t know who the ‘game master’ is, nor this… whatever you’d call him… what about the actual shooter? Who’s got the gun?”  
  
“We’re working on that.”  
  
“Well, if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous,” Mummy stated decisively. “Now, I’ve done a nice lamb roast. Do you want peas or carrots?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
*  
  
 _Where are you?_  
  
 _On a jolly holiday_  
  
 _You make me laugh, which is lucky for you. Being seen was the most idiotic thing you’ve ever done, and that is an impressive list._  
  
 _He hasn’t identified me._  
  
 _Not by name, no. But don’t put it past him or his brother. You are to stay where you are._  
  
 _Will you be joining me?_  
  
 _Of course. As soon as I can._  
  
*  
  
“I’m so pleased you came, my darling,” Mummy said.  
  
“Give me your coat. I’ll hang it up.” His dad knew not to help him off with the heavy garment, but waited patiently as his son unwrapped himself from it and his scarf. It was a bit warm for them, but Sherlock always felt the cold so keenly, and now he was so very thin.  
  
“I didn’t exactly have a choice—Mycroft sent some rather horrible men to dress me and man-handle me into his car.”  
  
“Sherlock…” his father warned.  
  
“All right. Yes. I’m pleased to be here,” he sighed as he glanced at himself in the mirror in their vestibule and ruffled his fingers through his curls.  
  
“I’ve made all your favourites,” his mother said over her shoulder as she headed back into the kitchen. “Come keep me company whilst I finish up.”  
  
Surprisingly obediently, Sherlock followed her, leaving his father to carefully hang up the Belstaff.  
  
*  
  
 _You are not to wait for Moran to return. I want him dead._  
  
 _I’m on it_  
  
 _You better be. I think your attention’s wandered lately._  
  
 _I’m focused_  
  
 _Good. I want to hear about how far his brain splattered._  
  
*  
  
“What was that all about?” John asked in amusement as Mary rather gleefully checked a text.  
  
“Oh! John! You startled me.” He must have really startled her; her eyes were wide and she panted a few tight breaths.  
  
“Who were you texting?” he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as she shoved her mobile into her pocket.  
  
“Oh, just Lynda. Something funny she heard on the Tube this morning.”  
  
“Oh. All right. When’s dinner?”  
  
“About forty-five minutes.”  
  
“Good. I need a shower.”  
  
Mary watched as John tossed his coat on the rack and wandered down the hall; she waited until she heard the water running before she hastily switched her work mobile for her boring nurse one. She had never been so close to John catching her before and was grateful that the two instruments looked enough alike that he hadn’t noticed the difference.  
  
If Sherlock had been there, he would have noticed. She had to be more careful.  
  
*  
  
“Is she really up for the job?” Moran wondered, rubbing his wet hair with the rough hotel towel. His companion wrinkled his nose a bit at the distinct smell of hair dye that wafted out of the bathroom.  
  
“Oh, I doubt it, but I’m having fun watching him go slowly mad—well, more mad,” he commented. “How did you manage to book the worst hotel room in Zurich?” he added, distastefully fingering the garish duvet.  
  
“It’s not that bad.”  
  
“It’s vile. Come distract me.”  
  
*  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured as his mother put a plate of poached fish over pasta in a light alfredo sauce in front of him. She followed it with a small bowl of sliced carrots. He ducked his head down, not looking at either of them as they ate.  
  
“This is very nice,” Dad commented after a bit.  
  
“It’s just from a jar—the sauce, I mean,” Mummy shrugged. “Well, I did dress it up a bit.”  
  
She looked over at their son, seated across from her. He was eating—slowly, but the food was going in.  
  
“Jackson’s son got him a new car,” Dad commented.  
  
“Did he? How did he manage that? I thought he lost his position.”  
  
“I’m not entirely sure. Jackson’s not asking questions. It’s quite nice.” Mr Holmes chuckled.  
  
“Why am I here?” He startled both of them by suddenly shoving his plate away, half his dinner still on it.  
  
Mr and Mrs Holmes looked at each other. Damn. They didn’t think they’d get too far with the small talk, but it would have been nice to at least finish their meal.  
  
“To be perfectly honest, there’s some information your brother wanted you to have, and he thought it best if it were to come from us.” Mrs Holmes calmly continued to eat and gave her husband a stern look.  
  
“How typical of him. Could he not face me himself?”  
  
“He didn’t think you’d listen to him,” his mother snapped. “And he’s right.”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. So what is this horrifying information that ‘the British government’ couldn’t bear to share with me?”  
  
“Finish your dinner first.”  
  
Mr Holmes hid his smile behind his napkin as his son gave a great sigh of exasperation—and reached for his plate.  
  
*  
  
“I was thinking of painting the bedroom,” Mary mused.  
  
“Oh?” John looked up from the newspaper, happy for the distraction. There was absolutely nothing exciting going on.  
  
“Yeah. Just freshen it up a bit.”  
  
“Can we paint it light blue?”  
  
Mary laughed. “What? No. That sounds awful.”  
  
John went back to his boring newspaper.  
  
*  
  
“Do you think he’s all right?” Mrs Holmes asked anxiously. “I mean, we did just tell him that the man he spotted in the crowd is a hired assassin and he’s the target.”  
  
“We also told him that the man—and the threat—is temporarily out of operation.”  
  
“So you really think he’s all right? After all, John said when he first recognised him—”  
  
“Yes, actually, I do,” her husband told her sincerely. “He’s being an absolute brat. That always means he’s fine.”  
  
“True,” she agreed.  
  
Their younger son came back into the house from the garden. He had said he needed to phone someone, but they both knew it was really to sneak a cigarette.  
  
“Were you smoking out there?” Mummy demanded.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Try that again.”  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
“Never mind. Could you take a look at the laptop?” his father requested. “It’s been freezing up quite often lately.”  
  
“All right.”  
  
*  
  
“Seriously, why haven’t you pulled her out of there by now, boss? The whole point of having her shadow Watson was to get the job done as soon as he got back, and it’s been months. Or let me have a crack at him. I owe it to him—dragging me around the bloody globe for two years. Talk about vile hotels…” Moran’s voice petered out as the warm, wet kiss behind his right knee made him shudder.  
  
“I told you—I don’t like you getting your hands dirty anymore.”  
  
*  
  
“You will at least email or text us once a week, won’t you,” Mummy stated firmly. It was not a request.  
  
“Yes, of course. But I really have to go now.”  
  
“Here’s your coat.”  
  
Sherlock was wrapped up and headed out the door when he paused. Without turning back to face them, he added, “I really am all right. I promise I’ll be careful. Thank you for dinner.”  
  
They stood in silence in the vestibule for a bit before Dad locked the door. Mummy watched him, and he turned and embraced her gently. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.  
  
“Do you remember when he fell out of that tree when he was seven?”  
  
“And Mycroft caught him? Of course.”  
  
“And he promised that he’d never climb it again—that he’d be careful.”  
  
“And it was—”  
  
“A week,” she sighed.  
  
“Yes. A week, and he broke his arm falling out of it that time.” He paused and reflected. “Oh, I see.”  
  
*  
  
Goodness, what a bother, he reflected as he headed home. He did understand why his parents—and everyone else—was so concerned, but he was finding the entire situation just annoying and a bit puzzling. Moran—the name suddenly floated up to the surface of his thoughts from wherever he had stashed it—  
  
The door to that particular room in his mind palace, now cracked open, was suddenly flung wide, and the images and thoughts and memories—  
  
“Are you all right?” The soft brogue and kind eyes of the woman before him were barely discernible through the horrible rushing sound in his ears and dark, swirling mist that encroached into his peripheral vision. “Come over here.” He felt himself being pulled just a few steps along; he had no idea in what direction, and then there was a solid wall at his back. “Sit down,” the gentle voice instructed. “I know the pavement’s filthy but you really look like you’re about to…”  
  
He slid down the wall until his bum hit the filthy pavement. At least he had The Coat. It would need to be cleaned now  
  
it certainly had been cleaned before  
  
there had been blood on it  
  
whose blood?  
  
“Put your head down,” the voice continued as a gentle pressure was applied to his head. He gratefully rested his forehead on his knees. “Do you need an ambulance?”  
  
“No. It will pass,” he managed.  
  
“How about some water? I’ve got a bottle with me.” His hearing was clearing up a bit; he could detect the rustle as she dug through her bag. He raised his head and looked blearily in her direction. “I promise I’ve got nothing catching,” she assured him as she opened the bottle.  
  
“How reassuring,” he managed.  
  
“No, he’s all right. Thank you, anyway,” she said to someone; he was slowly becoming aware of a small crowd forming. Damn.  
  
“Drink that,” she instructed. He did so, gratefully. “Feeling any better?” she inquired after he had taken a few sips.  
  
“A bit. Thank you.” God, he felt weak. Why did he feel that way?  
  
“Is there anyone I can phone for you?” He was now aware that she was crouching next to him. She was wearing a very nice blouse and skirt, with ludicrously high heeled court shoes and a sort of cardigan jacket—elegant. He glanced down into her bag, which she had put on the pavement next to him.  
  
“You’re a personal assistant for a very powerful man,” he informed her.  
  
“Erm… yeah, I am. How did you…?” She paused and took a good look at him as he took another few sips of water. “Wait. You look familiar. Do I know you?”  
  
“Not really.” He was finding that speaking was exhausting. He put his head down on his knees again.  
  
“No… I do know you. It’s… oh, it’s right there. Damn.”  
  
He lifted his head again and gave her a somewhat bemused look. For some reason, he found her to be very reassuring. And then she got that look—he knew that look. She had recognised him.  
  
“Oh, of course! You’re that… funny name… private investigator or something.”  
  
“Consulting detective,” he corrected.  
  
“Right! Oh, right. So did you… you did. You figured out what I do from… what?”  
  
He shook his head. He just couldn’t go into it right then.  
  
“Oh, God! I’m sorry. Here you are, flat out on the pavement, and I’m babbling away. Finish the water. Is there someone I can phone?”  
  
Was there? He wasn’t sure. No. No, there wasn’t. “Can you just get me a cab?”  
  
“Sure. Yeah. Sit tight.” Leaving her large bag (which was, in fact, how he had figured out her occupation) with him, she rose gracefully and headed toward the curb.  
  
*  
  
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she asked for the third time.  
  
“Yes. Thank you.” He wanted to lean his head back and shut his eyes, so he did. He heard the cab door shut and felt it move into traffic. He could feel the headache starting and he knew once that hit his stomach would become horribly uncooperative; he wanted to be back home when that happened. The cab driver probably felt the same way and despite the traffic made rather alarming time.  
  
And by the time he got home and essentially collapsed onto the sofa, the door had slammed shut again, and the name Moran was once again trapped behind it.  
  
*  
  
The text from Molly Hooper the next morning got his attention and he gratefully headed to the morgue.  
  
*  
  
 _How rare are conjoined twins? SH_  
  
 _I would have to look up the statistics but rare. Why?_  
  
He stared at the photo Sherlock sent, his eyes wide, and then his fingers flew across his keyboard.  
  
It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, as John researched the frequency of the birth of living conjoined twins, that it occurred to him what he was doing. Damn. Suckered in again.  
  
*  
  
“John! Are you ready for Mr Green?” Mary hadn’t bothered knocking; just stuck her head into the examining room.  
  
“What?” He nearly fell off his chair.  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you doing in here?” she demanded. “You’ve got patients backing up in reception.”  
  
“Oh, God. Sorry. Yeah, send in Mr…”  
  
“Green.”  
  
He cleared his search history guiltily and wondered how busy his schedule was.  
  
*  
  
“Hello, John,” Molly sang out. “We’re over here.” She motioned for him to come into the morgue, where Sherlock was bending over and intently examining a corpse.  
  
With two heads.  
  
Hmm.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
“Why would someone do that—strangle two people and sew their corpses together?” Molly wondered.  
  
“No idea. Not my division.” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.  
  
“Brat,” Greg grinned.  
  
John giggled.  
  
*  
  
“The entire box? Anderson dropped the entire evidence box into the river? God, Greg must have wanted to throttle him. No wonder he was so uptight today.” John grinned at Sherlock, then nodded firmly toward his plate. “Finish that,” he instructed, “and then how about we split a chocolate mousse?”  
  
*  
  
He prayed that Mrs Becket, his next patient, was a slow walker. He needed a moment to pull himself together. Because what had he been thinking about?  
  
dark curls slender body beautiful mouth piercing eyes elegant hands back to his mouth gorgeous arse—God he missed he wanted he needed  
  
  
  
*  
  
 _“Oh, God, that feels incredible,” John gasped, unable to stop himself from thrusting. Sherlock accepted every push deeper into his mouth without a sound, but he could detect the slightest glimmer of a smile as the glorious mouth stretched over him._  
  
  
  
Mary gripped the edge of the mattress until her knuckles were white to prevent herself from sitting bolt upright and screaming at him as John moved restlessly in his sleep.  
  



	54. Chapter 54

“Well, I don’t like it, but I suppose we’ll have to. When do you want to go?”  
  
“You’re not coming with me, John.”  
  
“Then you’re not going. And if you try, I’m calling the Yard and having Donovan come pick you up for trespassing.”  
  
“It will be twice as hard to get in undetected with two of us,” Sherlock pointed out.  
  
“You don’t know that. It wouldn’t be the first time we did something like that.”  
  
“We could _both_ be arrested,” the detective pointed out. He was clearly beginning to waver.  
  
“Then we get to share a cell,” the doctor responded with a grin. “Not the first time for that, either.”  
  
“Oh, all right.” Sherlock made a show of reluctantly agreeing before smiling broadly at him.  
  
“How are we going to get in?”   
  
“Oh! I’ve been wanting to show you.” He pulled a small leather case out of a desk drawer and opened it. A number of shining instruments fell out and John stepped over to examine them.  
  
“A glass cutter? Lock picks? What the hell is this? A burglary kit?” Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. “Where the hell did you get that?”  
  
“It’s amazing what you can buy online,” the younger man replied innocently.  
  
“Apparently. So when do we go?” John grinned a bit wickedly.  
  
“Not ‘til after eleven. What do you want to do until then?”  
  
*  
  
Sherlock efficiently removed a circle of glass in the greenhouse attached to the house, reached in, and unlocked the door. He reached back and, grasping his hand, pulled John after him into the dark.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock really was in top form, John noted with great satisfaction. He moved gracefully though the darkened rooms, John in tow. He ushered them out into a passage and aimed them for another room. He paused at the door and the doctor obediently froze in place.  
  
There was a dim light on. He frowned and very carefully eased a small mirror—a dental instrument—out of his pocket. Crouching down—the doctor doing likewise—he slowly and cautiously edged it past the open door and with its aid examined the room.  
  
He leaned back and whispered, “I don’t like it. I can’t quite make anything out.”  
  
John shivered as the soft lips brushed his ear. “Well, we can’t stay here,” he pointed out. He grinned and motioned them forward.  
  
*  
  
“So when did you add safe cracking to your skills?” John demanded, chuckling.  
  
“I’m actually not sure,” he admitted.  
  
“Well, you’re damn good at it.”  
  
They could still feel the adrenalin flowing through them. It had been a close thing. Someone in the household had entered just as Sherlock had handed John the last of the documents they were after. They had only seconds to hide themselves. They both dove behind a long curtain, pressed up against one another. Barely daring to breathe, they had peered out into the dim room.  
  
It had been a tense half hour. The master of the house—and the man they planned on proving to have swindled people out of thousands of pounds—had lazily lit a cigarette and was leafing through some papers on his desk.  
  
John couldn’t see much, but he was standing somewhat in front of Sherlock, his back pressed against his chest, and as the minutes ticked by he began to feel rather—aware.  
  
Aware of the trim body pressed against his.  
  
Aware of the warm breath on his ear and the back of his neck.  
  
Aware—and grateful—to feel Sherlock’s hand slip into his and squeeze it reassuringly.  
  
That moment seemed suspended in time.  
  
*  
  
The rest of the evening had been rather a blur, including as it did gunfire. John was somewhat frustrated that he hadn’t been given an opportunity to use his own gun, but Sherlock had convinced him to slip away from the house in the chaos that followed. They were fairly sure that no one had seen them, and the papers they had been seeking were now just ashes in the grate.  
  
“I enjoyed that,” the doctor admitted, crouching down and poking at the bits with satisfaction.  
  
“I’m shocked, Doctor,” the detective teased. “House breaking enjoyable?” John paused in his efforts, staring into the fire. His expression shifted, and Sherlock, noting the change, frowned. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“John, I’m not the best at… feelings… but something is clearly on your mind.” He offered his hand and pulled the older man up. “Please tell me.” He held him by the shoulders and looked keenly into the dark eyes.  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. I don’t… there was part of the evening that I enjoyed more than anything else.”  
  
Sherlock stared at the familiar, worn face, and he slowly nodded. “I do think I understand, John,” he responded slowly.  
  
“God, Sherlock. I can’t take this any—”  
  
The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the lovely, soft lips.  
  
*  
  
“So was it an exciting one?” Mary demanded, pouncing on him as soon as he walked in the door.  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, it was.”  
  
Oh, God, yes. It had been.  
  
The case hadn’t been half bad, either.


	55. Chapter 55

“You have to stop looking at me like that,” John murmured, his lips brushing Sherlock’s ear.  
  
“Stop looking so delicious, then,” Sherlock murmured back, a wicked smile on his lips.  
  
“This is hardly professional behaviour,” the doctor pointed out. “Good thing we’re off the clock.”  
  
“Off the clock. Off his rocker. Off the deep end.” His deep voice filled the space around them, making John shiver with delight.  
  
“What are you on about?” John slid his hands up the crisp shirt.  
  
“Not on. Off. As in getting off. As in getting off with you.”  
  
John grinned. “Oh, such coarse language. You must be positively aching for it.” He reached down. “Oh, yes you are.”  
  
Sherlock groaned and pressed his hips forward, grinding himself into the familiar hand. “You have no idea. You were driving me mad at the crime scene.”  
  
“Was I?”  
  
“I was half hard the entire time,” he admitted.  
  
“Oh, my,” John whispered against the long neck.  
  
“I almost had it out in the cab.”  
  
The image of this left John breathless. “Next time… I’ll take it out for you,” he promised, rubbing the firm shaft. The detective groaned.  
  
“Would you… John. Your mouth. Please. I want your mouth.”  
  
John considered it. Or he gave a very good impression of considering it. “Only if whilst I’m sucking you off, you tell me what’s going on as if we were in the cab.”  
  
“You want narration?” the detective replied, somewhat confused.  
  
“You heard me. I am going to wrap my lips around the most succulent cock in London, and said owner of that cock—who happens to be fluent in seven languages and positively ripping in English—is going to tell me exactly what he _observed_ when we were in the cab headed home until he comes down my throat. Clear enough?”  
  
“God, yes.”  
  
*  
  
He had them on the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park when he stopped talking.  
  
*  
  
“You feel guilty about not feeling guilty?” Sherlock frowned, absent-mindedly running his fingers through John’s short hair. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”  
  
“Yes, but that’s how I feel. Mary’s done nothing to deserve this, and here I am, telling her to start looking at wedding venues and then, while she’s doing that, I’m here getting off with you.”  
  
“So you do feel guilty,” Sherlock clarified.  
  
“Yes, I do, but not guilty enough to stop doing it.”  
  
“Obviously,” Sherlock purred. Their virtual cab ride had been just the start of an extremely pleasant few hours. John clearly enjoyed the sound of his voice, so act two had been Sherlock giving him the most thorough hand job of his life while extolling his virtues using the longest, ponciest words he could come up with.  
  
John declared that there should be a “Golden Dictionary” award when he finally got his breath back.  
  
*  
  
John fumbled for his mobile, which had somehow slid under his chair cushion. It was Mary. “Hello?”  
  
“I’m guessing you’re in Baker Street,” Mary remarked without preamble.  
  
“Umm…”  
  
“It’s all right. It’s fine, actually. I was thinking—why not invite Sherlock over for dinner? Say Wednesday night?”  
  
“Oh… sure. I’ll ask him.”  
  
“Tell him seven o’clock.”  
  
“Sure. Okay. Yeah.” John tried not to sound distracted.  
  
“Love you,” she purred.  
  
“You too,” he mumbled before abruptly ending the call.  
  
“You’ve been invited to dinner Wednesday at seven o’clock,” he reported to Sherlock, looking at him with a slight frown. He only had to look directly down, as the thin man was on his back on the floor in front of the fireplace and John was straddling him.  
  
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” the detective wondered, wriggling a bit so more of their bare skin came into contact.  
  
“It’ll make Mary happy, so—oh, nice—yeah. Be a good boy and come to dinner, okay?”  
  
Sherlock smiled up at him wickedly. “Only if I can have my dessert now,” he purred.  
  
*  
  
“We need water,” the doctor pointed out.  
  
“The lotion is much more effective,” the detective pointed out in return.  
  
“To drink, you maniac,” John laughed.  
  
“Bit busy,” Sherlock informed him. “Later.”  
  
*  
  
“What’s on the menu for tomorrow?” John asked as casually as he could. It was Tuesday, and he had made a point of getting to work and getting home at “normal” times. Now he was seated at their kitchen table as Mary, paper in hand and cook books spread out in front of her, made a shopping list.  
  
“Is roast beef all right?”  
  
“As long as you don’t get too fancy—and it’s rare, yeah. What with?”  
  
“Potatoes. Veg.”  
  
“Just remember that he doesn’t like anything too complicated—no ‘food in his food.’ No mixing. And the ‘no’ list is on the fridge.”  
  
“Of course, John.”  
  
*  
  
BORED.  
  
Greg Lestrade got it now. He got why Sherlock had taken his boredom out on the wall. He was fortunate that he didn’t have his firearm with him at the meeting, or he would have been sorely tempted to do the same.  
  
Seriously, how many meetings, seminars, and workshops did they need on “inappropriate touching” of co-workers? Was it really that much of a problem? Honestly there were very few people with whom he worked that he would want to touch at all, let alone inappropriately and particularly not while at work.  
  
Then he thought about Sherlock and John and what they sometimes did at crime scenes and he had to disguise his laugh as a cough.  
  
*  
  
“Well, that was a disaster,” he remarked tightly, coming back inside after putting Sherlock into a cab. He had desperately wanted to leave with him—to make sure he got home all right and went right to bed—but Sherlock had assured him that he would be all right and that it might be a good idea for him to remain behind.  
  
“I don’t understand what happened,” Mary replied innocently.  
  
“How could you not understand? I have explicitly explained to you that he doesn’t handle a great deal of food well.”  
  
“I thought you were exaggerating.”  
  
John couldn’t reply to that. He was too angry. What had she been thinking? If was as if she had taken everything he told her not to serve and made that the menu.  
  
He thought about it—thick slabs of quite frankly overcooked beef; a huge mound of mashed potatoes with some sort of bits of green stuff in them—whatever it was, even he didn’t like it; and a veg mix, complete with courgettes, carrots, peas, mushrooms, and some other things he didn’t recognise, all on the same large plate. The “good” silverware, which for some reason had gigantic forks. Seriously, she couldn’t have done worse if she tried. He was livid.  
  
“It’s not just that he’s picky,” he began, trying to keep his voice level. “I’ve explained to you it’s a combination of his oversensitivity and his stomach. It’s really not his fault. I told you to keep it simple and not to give him too much at once. Was that so difficult to manage?”  
  
“I said I was sorry—I just got into regular company-dinner mode and I forgot.”  
  
“All right. Fine. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  
  
He left her to do all the washing up by herself and headed into the sitting room, where he sat and opened his laptop and sent a brief email: _I’m so sorry about it all. Are you all right?_  
  
He kept picturing poor Sherlock, whose eyes had widened in panic when Mary served him. He really had tried—he had carefully cut one bite-size piece of meat off the large slab and edged it hesitantly into his mouth. Chewed. Tried a sip of wine. Chewed. Tried some water. Finally gave up and discreetly, whilst wiping his mouth, spit the half-chewed beef into his napkin.  
  
He had quite bravely stuck his fork into the mountain of potatoes—what was that movie that featured an actual mountain made from mashed potatoes? —and withdrawn it without actually getting any of it loaded onto his utensil. He poked at the white-and-green mixture a few more times but didn’t actually ever try it.  
  
The veg—well. Using the clumsy, large fork, the pale man had delicately separated one carrot slice (at least it was slices and not cubes) from the rest of the mess and brought it to his mouth. Stared at it, his brow furrowed. Opened his mouth the smallest amount that he could and slid the piece in. Shuddered, but closed his mouth and resolutely chewed and swallowed. That became the safest route, apparently, and he had spent the rest of the meal carefully picking through and eating just the carrots out of the mix. The peas, John realised, were too difficult to separate.  
  
Why the hell couldn’t she have done what he asked? Was it really that difficult? It was, in fact, easier. No complicated recipes or exotic (and expensive) ingredients. No fancy place settings. This was a man who was perfectly happy to have pasta in a plain cream sauce, or Welsh rarebit, or even just some tinned pears or sliced bananas in warm milk, sweet and fragrant with cinnamon—  
  
He had to stop. He was so aggravated his chest felt tight.  
  
He messed around online a bit, trying to distract himself. He finally felt his chest begin to loosen—sure, it was cliché, but videos of adorable kittens really were sort of soothing—when a quiet chime announced a new message for him.  
  
Sherlock had replied to his email: _Not your fault. I did try to eat it. Is she angry?_  
  
John hesitated and listened. Mary was still elbow-deep in the sink, from the sound of it.  
  
_She’s angry at me for being angry at her,_ he typed. _You really did try and you were very polite. I’m proud of you. Are you all right now?_  
  
_I don’t want to eat for a bit,_ Sherlock answered. _Please don’t make me eat tomorrow and I’ll be very good on Friday._  
  
_Of course. I understand completely. What would you like on Friday?_ John grinned affectionately as he sent his message. He knew what the answer would be.  
  
_Chips. Maybe an orange._  
  
_Anything you want, baby._  
  
Mary came into the sitting room and he shut his laptop.  
  
*  
  
John found himself sighing quite a bit—all day Thursday and into Friday. He was working in “typical suburban doctor/boyfriend” mode and not a bit happy about it, but after his last message to Sherlock, a rather odd reply came back—several hours later: _We’ll see each other Friday after you’re done with work. Until then, please do not do anything else to make her angry._  
  
He didn’t understand it, but Sherlock always had his reasons, so he’d play along and find out what it was about when he saw him.  
  
He couldn’t wait.  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry. I’m more tired than I realised.” John sounded lame, even to himself. He wasn’t even embarrassed. He just didn’t care.  
  
John Watson didn’t care that even the offer of a blow job couldn’t get him hard for his fiancée.  
  
*  
  
“I’ve got to go with her tomorrow. We’ve… well, she’s settled on a venue for the wedding and we have to sign a contract or something.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t reply. He had been quiet and pensive all evening, and John was worried. He had hardly touched his lovely, hot chips—even drowned in vinegar the way he liked. He had kept his head down and, John realised, had barely spoken a word. Now, at John’s announcement, he merely nodded, not making eye contact.  
  
“What’s the matter?” John finally asked gently. He reached across the table and captured Sherlock’s left hand in his right. Sherlock shook his head but he didn’t pull his hand away. “Does that mean that you don’t know or that you don’t want to tell me?” he prodded. “Come on. Let’s get away from this.” He indicated the unconsumed food. “Come sit with me.” He tugged gently and led the taller man to the sofa. “Lie down,” he requested, seating himself and patting his lap. Sherlock complied, rather bonelessly sliding down so his head rested on John’s legs. The doctor immediately began to run his fingers through the tangled curls.  
  
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he murmured.  
  
“No. I mean, I don’t know.” Sherlock’s voice was even lower than usual and a bit raspy.  
  
“Are you upset about Wednesday night?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“Is all the wedding talk bothering you?”  
  
He shook it again and sighed shakily.  
  
“Is it just a bad day?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and turned so he could bury his head in the doctor’s warm, soft, familiar stomach. John wrapped his arms around him and, bending close, whispered into the soft curls, “I’m sorry, my sweet boy. I’m here now. I’ve got you.”  
  
They fell asleep like that, and John was late meeting Mary at the wedding venue the next day.  
  
*  
  
“What do you mean, you don’t have your chequebook?” she hissed in a stage whisper.  
  
John made a show of patting his various pockets. “I mean, I don’t have it. I must have left it at work.”  
  
“We’re supposed to be leaving a deposit. Now what do we do?”  
  
John smiled tightly. “We explain what happened and I put a cheque in the mail on Monday,” he said through clenched teeth.  
  
“Terrific. I do everything else—all the research, the negotiating, the decisions. All you had to do was to show up, sign the agreement, and write the damned cheque.” She stood up and angrily adjusted her coat. “I’m going to wait outside. _You_ explain it to the manager,” she snarled.  
  
*  
  
Greg leaned against the desk, looking down with concern at his best consultant. Sherlock was clearly having a bad time of it. He had been doing so well lately that it had taken the DI by surprise, but there they were—an unappetizing, congealed and uneaten meal on the coffee table and Sherlock curled up on the sofa, his back to the room.  
  
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Where’s John?”  
  
Sherlock’s reply was muffled by the cushions.  
  
“Try that again,” the older man suggested. He moved the plates to the side, sat on the table, and put his hand on a thin shoulder.  
  
“He’s at some meeting or something about where they’re going to get married.” Sherlock’s tone was disturbing—instead of petulant or bored or disgusted, which Greg would consider to be perfectly acceptable considering the subject matter—he just sounded sad.  
  
“Oh,” he breathed. “I see.”  
  
“He had to sign something and pay the deposit,” the younger man continued.  
  
Deposit? What was it about that…? The DI glanced around the untidy room. “Sherlock,” he said slowly. “How is he going to pay the deposit if his chequebook is sitting on your desk?”  
  
Sherlock sat up, looking rather foggily in the direction the DI was indicating. He peered across the room and then, spotting the object, seemed to cheer up quite a bit.  
  
Ah. Now Greg understood.  
  
*  
  
_Yes, it’s here. SH_  
  
_Good. Thought I lost it._  
  
_Do you want me to bring it to you? I could meet you somewhere. SH_  
  
_No. I’ll come get it soon_  
  
_How soon? SH_  
  
_Not soon enough_  
  
*  
  
Mary opened the text and studied it.  
  
_I’m getting angry._  
  
_Why?_ she replied, her heart pounding. She already knew why.  
  
_Don’t make me wait any longer. I want his face blown away_.  
  
Her fingers hesitated over her mobile for a long time. _There’s a problem_ , she finally sent. She had had a hard time getting that typed properly.  
  
_Then fix it. And don’t question my orders._  
  
_Yes,_ she managed to text, suddenly very grateful that this was not a video or even a phone chat, because there was no way that even she could have disguised the terror in her voice.  
  
She buried the mobile deep in its hiding place. And then she sat on the bed for a long, long time.  
  
*  
  
“So, what are you up to tonight, brother mine?” Mycroft said to himself. He was home, in his favourite dressing gown (maroon satin), stretched out comfortably with a very nice snifter of brandy and a completely decadent treat: a cigar. He lazily pulled his laptop to himself and opened the live feed.  
  
He manipulated the controls with the ease of familiarity. “No one home?” he murmured, switching from one camera to another. No, no one home. He switched settings and was presented with an image of a street. Ah, Baker Street. There they were; just stepping out of a cab. At least this time it looked like Sherlock was paying. John let them in. Mycroft switched back and was now ready to watch them come into the flat.  
  
And his eyebrows went up as John Watson suddenly slammed his baby brother into the wall.  
  
What?  
  
But wait… was Sherlock… was he _laughing_?  
  
And then it all became clear when the doctor began to positively ravish the taller man, and it was all eager kisses and hands and coats being ripped off and John’s jumper went flying one way and Sherlock’s suit jacket the other and…  
  
Mycroft sighed and closed the program. So, they were back at it finally? Nothing new under the sun.  
  
And good for them.  
  
He chuckled and raised his glass in a toast to his baby brother and his goldfish—although to be fair, John Watson was more of a beta.  
  
*  
  
“Take it easy… or I’m going… to be stabbed… by a letter opener,” the shorter man panted, grasping the edge of the desk tightly to avoid being pushed clean across it.  
  
“It will… be… worth it,” his gasping lover responded.  
  



	56. Chapter 56

Oh, yes, let’s play nice. Let’s pretend we’re a happily engaged couple out for a casual meal with my fiancée’s best friend.  
  
Oh, yes. Let’s pretend. Let’s pretend that we’re a happily engaged couple out for a casual meal and I’m not shagging my best friend instead of my fiancée.  
  
Why are we pretending that everything is all right? Why should I have to pretend that my—whatever he is—is going to marry that horrible woman? And why in God’s name are we eating here?  
  
*  
  
“… and three vegetable soups, please.” She glanced over her shoulder at the table John had secured for them in the small eat-in area whilst she placed their order at the counter. The soup came in white paper cups with lids. Perfect.  
  
“All right?” He reached over and pulled back the wrapping paper on Sherlock’s half sandwich. Yes, cheddar and bacon with nothing else on it. He would be all right with that.  
  
“Mmm. Fine.” He picked a piece of the bread off his sandwich, rolled it into a ball, and dropped it back in the wrapper.  
  
*  
  
“Careful. It’s hot,” she informed them, carefully pulling the lid off her soup.  
  
“Let it cool down,” he instructed him, removing the lid of his own container and reaching for his.  
  
“I can manage,” he snapped at him, reaching for his spoon.  
  
*  
  
“You all right?” she asked in concern.  
  
“You don’t look well,” he echoed, reaching out.  
  
“’Scuse me,” he murmured from behind his hand.  
  
*  
  
“You should probably—”  
  
“I’m going to check on him.”  
  
*  
  
“What happened?” she demanded, dropping the last of the soup containers in the bin.  
  
“It’s his damn stomach,” he explained, helping him on with his coat.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled, hanging his head.  
  
*  
  
She followed them out of the café, pausing to let a new customer in. He glanced at her, puzzled. The two men in front of her were clearly not having a good time—one was pale as a sheet and a bit wobbly and the other was fussing and ushering him along, a hand at his back. So why did she look so gleeful?


	57. Chapter 57

Mycroft peered at the slightly grainy image with a practiced eye. One of his people had suggested he watch the recorded feed; his brother had just caused some concern. He sighed but started to watch the timeframe that had been reported to him.  
  
Sherlock and John came into the flat. John was steadying the taller man, a look of concern on his expressive face. Hmm. Maybe the technician who had been monitoring the feed was correct. Yes, the doctor was helping him take off his coat and getting him seated on the sofa. Taking his pulse; checking his eyes. Cradling his cheek gently. There was something wrong.  
  
John turned his head and spoke to someone who was apparently waiting out in the hallway. A short blond entered. Oh. That must be Mary Morstan, John’s fiancée—although Mycroft already knew that that was a short-lived arrangement; John had never gotten around to paying the deposit on the wedding venue Mary had chosen. From her expression, she didn’t know yet, and currently John was too concerned about his—whatever word they used to use to describe their arrangement—to be thinking about it at all.  
  
The older Holmes brother frowned a bit as he examined her image. There was something… off.  
  
Hair bleached at home, cheap cosmetics, sensible shoes, hideous blouse. Not concerned with appearances; concerned with budget. No jewellery. Interesting. She had had laser eye surgery, though—a slight vanity? She took a step forward and Mycroft leaned into the monitor, adjusting a setting; focusing more tightly on the woman.  
  
Odd. She was carrying two mobile phones. One was concealed. And she did sometimes but was not at that moment carrying a gun.  
  
She and John spoke briefly, and then he shook his head and turned back to the detective, who was cradling his head in his hands.  
  
And then, he caught it.  
  
When John had turned away from her, there was a split second—a glimpse—a micro-expression. Mycroft’s eyes opened wide.  
  
Mary Morstan _despised_ Sherlock Holmes.  
  
*  
  
“No, Mary, I think it’s best if you head home. I’ve got him.”  
  
“Sorry. I’ll just get out of your way, shall I?”  
  
“Sorry. Sherlock, look at me.” John’s attention was clearly on his friend. He had barely glanced at his (ex-)fiancée as she turned and exited.  
  
“Phone me later,” she called out as she descended the stairs.  
  
John didn’t reply.  
  
*  
  
What the hell was that? Mycroft’s fingers flew over the settings. He watched the few seconds of video five more times. No, he was not mistaken (not that he ever thought that he was). It was there—first there was disgust, then contempt, and then a look of pure, unadulterated rage.  
  
*  
  
“How are you feeling?”  
  
“I’m fine, John.” The voice was deep and firm and steady and definitely held more than a hint of amusement.  
  
“You wanker! You were faking being sick?”  
  
“No. I really did get sick.”  
  
“Why? Was it the soup?”  
  
“Vegetable—all those courgettes and celery and corn.” He shuddered at the memory.  
  
“I’m sorry, my love. I specifically told her plain beef broth for you. They must have given her the wrong one.” He kissed him on the forehead. “Why did you eat it when you know that it makes you ill?”  
  
“Just being polite?” he offered, shrugging casually.  
  
John snorted. “Since when?”  
  
“There’s always a first time.” His voice was definitely playful.  
  
“You all right now?” John questioned a bit suspiciously.  
  
“Mmm. More than all right,” he purred. He butted his head into John’s hand until he started to run his fingers through the dark curls.  
  
“Was this your plan all along?” John realised, gripping the silky hair and giving it a slight tug. “To get us here alone?”  
  
“Ow! Perhaps,” he murmured, turning his face up and presenting his mouth to be kissed.  
  
“You’re brilliant,” the older man admitted, kissing the beautiful mouth. “But… you need to go brush your teeth.”  
  
“Sorry.” He rose and headed for the bathroom.  
  
John waited impatiently, yanking off his coat and pacing the room. A familiar sound interrupted him. Sherlock’s mobile. He looked around, realising it was in the pocket of The Coat. Without thinking about it he dug it out and glanced at the caller ID. “Thorn In My Side” was apparently phoning. John giggled. “Hello, Mycroft,” he grinned.  
  
“I need to speak to my brother.”   
  
No beating around the bush, hey? “He’s brushing his teeth,” he informed him, still smiling. He was thinking much more about what was going to happen after his maniac was done tidying up than about the pompous arse to whom he was speaking.  
  
“Give him his phone NOW.”  
  
John knew Mycroft’s voice well enough to know that this wasn’t a family emergency or anything like that. “All right,” he agreed, sighing. He walked down the hallway and, leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, presented Sherlock with his mobile. The taller man frowned at it, then wiped his mouth with a towel and accepted it.  
  
“What?” he demanded flatly.   
  
John shook his head and headed back to the sitting room. It was like watching two teenage girls bicker over a boy.  
  
*  
  
“What have you been thinking?” Mycroft demanded.  
  
“About?” He rolled his eyes for his own benefit; he knew the tone of his voice would carry the effect.  
  
“About Mary Morstan.”  
  
“Oh. That.”  
  
“So you do know. I was afraid that your ‘indisposition’ since your return had impaired your abilities.”  
  
“I didn’t _miss_ anything,” he hissed in reply.  
  
“Then what the he… what are you thinking?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Brother mine, I do know that you, like John Watson, are attracted to danger, but don’t you think that you’re playing a bit too close to the _edge_ … sorry,” he added insincerely.  
  
“No. I know exactly what I’m doing.”  
  
“And what exactly might that be?”  
  
“I’m fairly sure that’s none of your business.”  
  
“Sherlock! Stop this at once! This is serious.”  
  
“Well aware.” Sherlock wandered down the hallway.  
  
“Then what are you doing? Are you mad?” Mycroft’s voice reflected deep concern, bordering on panic. His brother’s behaviour had been erratic—to put it mildly—since his return, but this was the first time he was doing something truly dangerous. “You’re playing with fire.”  
  
“I know exactly what I’m doing and I’ll thank you to stay out of it,” Sherlock replied smoothly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Smiling at John, he reached up and moved a book on the top shelf a few inches “… John and I would like some privacy.” He hit ‘end call’ with a defiant sweep of his finger and tossed the mobile over his shoulder, taking two long steps and crushing himself up against John, who was waiting with open arms. “Now, where were we?”  
  
“What was… that… all about?” John inquired politely, peppering the elegant white throat with kisses.  
  
“Who knows? Isn’t there some sort of medication you could give him? We could slip it in his tea.”  
  
John giggled. “He’ll be furious that you covered the camera.”  
  
“He’s being awful and doesn’t deserve a show today.” Sherlock nibbled thoughtfully on an earlobe.  
  
“Poor him. He doesn’t know what he’ll be missing.”  
  



	58. Chapter 58

“What happened to you when I… left?” The dark-haired man sounded uncharacteristically uncertain.  
  
“That was a nice euphemism,” his blogger commented teasingly. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Mrs Hudson told me that you got very… withdrawn. Depressed? I’m not sure I know the appropriate way to describe it.” Sherlock was lying sideways across the bed with John’s head on his stomach. He thoughtfully traced the shell of his ear with one long finger.  
  
“Depressed works. Yeah. I did.” John’s demeanour changed; he looked thoughtful. He reached up and grabbed the hand tickling his ear.  
  
“I don’t really understand why,” Sherlock admitted quietly. “I do understand that you were upset. I knew you would be, but I didn’t anticipate how much it would affect you. Mycroft didn’t even anticipate it.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of John’s hand.  
  
“I don’t really know myself,” the doctor sighed. “I suppose I’m predisposed to it. I certainly was when I got back from Afghanistan.”  
  
“Hmm. Parallel circumstances in a way—you went from engaging in rather mad things to nothing with no warning.”  
  
“That was definitely part of it,” John nodded. He shifted his grip on the taller man’s hand and kissed the palm, gently. “What made it worse was the way the media ripped you apart.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I was already a mess. I admit it. I fell apart. I missed you so much it hurt to breathe. And then everywhere I looked, there were those headlines.”  
  
“About me being a fake,” Sherlock stated flatly. John was quiet, but he began to lightly trace the lines on Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock watched his finger for a minute before turning his attention to his face. He finally broke the silence. “What did that matter?”  
  
“It mattered because I knew you weren’t a fake. It mattered because I loved you.” Sherlock suddenly pulled his hand away. John tipped his head up to look at him. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.  
  
“You… loved me. Past tense.” His voice was tight; strained.  
  
“What…” John frowned. “Do you think that I don’t love you now? No. God, no, Sherlock. I just meant that because I was in love with you, all those awful things people were saying about you hurt even more.”  
  
“So…”  
  
“So… yes. I love you. Very much present tense. Right this very second.”  
  
Sherlock relaxed and smiled a bit sadly at him as John recaptured his hand. “What about you?” John asked. “Did you love me?”  
  
“Then? Yes, of course.”  
  
“And what about now?”  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath and curled his body around the older man. “John,” he began quietly. “When I was away… I don’t remember a great deal of it clearly, but what I do know is that I missed you every single second. I woke up thinking about you. I went to sleep thinking about you. I talked to you. I argued with you. I looked for you in every crowd. I can’t tell you how many times I almost phoned you; emailed you. It was hell. Every single second I was away from you was hell.   
  
“And when I came back, I wasn’t even sure you were real at first. It seemed too good to be true. I had wished—dreamed—about seeing you again so many times, how could it finally be real? It didn’t make sense.  
  
“I was so lost. Out of place. Out of time. I couldn’t get my feet back under me. Other people tried to help—I know that’s what they were trying to do—but I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to be back—really back and all right—until I saw you and I absolutely knew that you were real.”  
  
He paused, his eyes flickering as he reviewed what he had said.  
  
“Oh!” he suddenly interjected. “Yes, I do still love you. Very much.”  
  
John chuckled. “I did get that, yeah. Thank you for saying all that, though.”  
  
“Will you make me eggy bread?”  
  
John sat up and stared down at his love. He laughed. “I would be delighted,” he replied.  
  
  
  



	59. Chapter 59

“I don’t think I have ever been this dirty, even in Afghanistan,” John commented, trying in vain to wipe the grit off his face with his even dirtier fingers.  
  
“It’s _everywhere_ ,” Sherlock groaned in agreement, pulling a face as he felt something crunch between his teeth.  
  
“Why can’t—just once—the criminals hide their loot in a nice, clean hotel or something?”  
  
Despite his discomfort, Sherlock laughed. “It does seem like they go out of their way to find the most disgusting places,” he rumbled. He coughed.  
  
John looked at him in concern. “You all right?”  
  
“Yeah…” he paused to cough again and clear his throat. “I don’t want to think about what I’ve ingested.”  
  
“We both need showers.”  
  
“You go first,” the detective instructed.  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Yes. I’ll gather up some clothing for you, all right?”  
  
They headed down the hallway, walking uncomfortably as the grit worked its way even further into their clothing and skin.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, that’s glorious,” John sighed aloud. The water running off him was a vile, almost opaque brownish-grey. He would start at the top—he grabbed his shampoo.  
  
The bathroom door opened and Sherlock wandered in. John flicked the edge of the curtain aside to observe him. He had stripped himself and the line between his absolutely filthy face and hands and only-slightly-less filthy body was visible. He was carrying a bin liner and, not realising that the doctor was observing him, bent down and scooped up all of the discarded clothing from the floor. His own filthy garments were apparently already in the sack and he efficiently added John’s. He glanced up and noticed the older man’s face.  
  
“I’ll have all this cleaned,” he offered, “or possibly incinerated.”  
  
“There’s nothing there I’d miss,” John shrugged.  
  
He straightened up and grimaced. “I _must_ brush my teeth,” he grumbled.  
  
“Have at it,” the doctor nodded, tugging the curtain closed again. He listened fondly to the familiar sounds—medicine cabinet creaking open; the tap going on. Even the rhythm—shush-shush-shush-shush—somehow warmed his heart. He pulled the curtain open again.  
  
Sherlock, putting his toothbrush away, turned and looked at him curiously.  
  
“Get in here.”  
  
*  
  
At first their goal was to remove the grit that had worked its way into virtually every pore. The water at their feet was even murkier now. Sherlock groaned in gratitude as the water began to do its work. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done this—bathed together,” he commented.  
  
“A very long time,” his blogger agreed, quite seriously. His head was tipped up so he could see Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
“Let me,” he said, gently taking the shampoo from John’s hands.  
  
They had shared so many intimacies over the years—from the brutal injuries requiring John’s doctoring skills to illness to sex to even using the toilet—but each one still sent a thrill through the doctor. They somehow filled him up like the most delicious meal never could.  
  
The sensation of Sherlock’s long, strong fingers running through his hair, gently rubbing the creamy foam into his scalp, was almost overwhelming. He swayed and felt a wiry arm wrap around him whilst the other hand continued its massage. “You all right?” Sherlock breathed, carefully rubbing behind John’s ear with one finger. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”  
  
“This is…” His voice caught in his throat.  
  
“John? What is it?”  
  
“Sherlock,” he managed, swallowing hard to regain his voice. “This is what I want.”  
  
“What do you mean?” He concentrated on rubbing his thumb along John’s hairline, trying to keep the shampoo from running into the dark eyes.  
  
“This… us. Being together, all the time. Talking and touching and sharing everything. I don’t want this to ever go away again.”  
  
“I can’t promise that,” the taller man admitted sadly.  
  
“Neither can I,” was the wistful response. “But there is one thing that I can do to show you how much I want to be with you.”  
  
“What is it?” Sherlock wrapped his hand around the back of John’s head, moving his fingers gently through the short hair. He gave him a soft, sweet smile. “How can you show me?”  
  
“By coming home—for good.”


	60. Chapter 60

“I don’t actually _care_ about what you think. Find out the truth about James Moriarty—starting with his birth.”  
  
“But sir, we’ve been through this…”  
  
“Not thoroughly enough, apparently.” He paused, considering. Oh! Of course. So obvious. Why hadn’t he seen it before?  
  
“Do a search for his birthdate. Then look for any boys given up for adoption who had a brother a year older or younger.”  
  
“And then?”  
  
“And then track them down, you idiot!”  
  
Because suddenly—insistently—there it was. The solution.   
  
It wasn’t twins. It was never twins. But brothers, as close in age as possible—yes. Most assuredly raised apart—given up at birth. Adopted at birth? Possibly. Didn’t matter. They would have had different surnames; been raised in different towns.   
  
But they—two boys—would have shown remarkably similar characteristics—rather notable behaviours.  
  
“Search for instances of young boys mutilating animals; setting fires,” he added; his order stopped the departing minion (he really had to stop thinking of them as that) in his tracks.   
  
The young man turned back. “How young? How many years back?”  
  
Mycroft did a rapid calculation (he couldn’t do them any other way) and offered a range of years.  
  
*  
  
So which one had killed Carl Powers?  
  
Did they know about each other by then? Had they planned it together, one providing the alibi for the other? That would explain why all of the Powers boy’s classmates had checked out. Damn.  
  
And then one of them had become an actor. It was legitimate, after all. He had seen the programmes. Read the reviews. This was a real thing— “The Storyteller.” A children’s programme hosted by a sweet-looking, dark-haired man with a gentle brogue and big, brown eyes.  
  
He examined every single episode as carefully as he could.  
  
Freckles. Moles. Even twins deemed identical by DNA could actually be easily discerned if one simply paid attention. Identifying brothers at least a year apart in age was simple for one of his observational skill. One of Sherlock’s ability.  
  
Sherlock knew that.  
  
He knew that.  
  
He watched for hours.  
  
Only two episodes of “The Storyteller” had been hosted by… what to call him? Who were they? Was either one actually named James Moriarty?  
  
It was so obvious after that. Clearly the one brother had been the public one—it was his voice; his image that was used everywhere—not just to host the bland television series but for everything. It was most assuredly he who had been at the pool when he nearly… when John had nearly…  
  
Mycroft didn’t and wouldn’t think about it.  
  
It was still most assuredly the same Moriarty who had so flamboyantly taken over Pentonville, the Tower, and the Bank of England on that one day. Maybe not him who had made all the arrangements, but most assuredly it was a _performer_ who had waltzed his way up to the glass in the Tower and…  
  
Yes.  
  
He strongly suspected that Sherlock had known about this, possibly for ages.  
  
Years.  
  
Since the time he had to share a holding cell with the man for five minutes.  
  
Most assuredly.  
  
That explained quite a bit.  
  
In those two years—Sherlock hadn’t been chasing “The Storyteller,” a.k.a. Jim from Tech Support, a.k.a. Richard Brooke. No. That one was really, truly dead. No. It was now the other one. The one who kept to the shadows; invisible to virtually everyone as he made his way all over the globe. In particular: New York. Miami. Las Vegas… In those years—the years that left him hurt and confused and damaged and scarred—his little brother had been chasing the _real_ James Moriarty.  
  
And now he was in terrible danger.  
  



	61. Chapter 61

“You have to tell her,” Sherlock said, his voice low and sombre.  
  
“I know. I… know. I just haven’t the faintest idea of what to say,” John groaned. He dropped his head back onto the pillow. They were in bed. John was naked, on his back, the covers pulled up so they just covered him to his waist. Sherlock was lying on his stomach on top of the covers, propped up on his elbows. He was completely uncovered, with the light on, and he seemed to have forgotten about his scars for the moment.  
  
“Do you want me to do it?”  
  
John picked up his head again and stared at the dark-haired man. “What? No. No. That’s not necessary. It’s my responsibility.”  
  
“She’s going to be angry,” he pointed out, choosing his words carefully.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“No, I mean she’s going to be _really_ angry.” This was awkward. How do you warn your lover that his fiancée is a hired assassin who will most likely kill him when he breaks off his engagement with her to be with the very person she is supposed to be targeting? That was a bit complicated... He frowned. Maybe he could ask Lestrade for advice. No, that would be complicated, too—he’d probably want to do something about the assassin part. Was that his division?  
  
He shifted a bit uncomfortably. This was getting more and more upsetting the more he thought about it. The incident with the soup had been a bit too close for comfort. It was a good thing that his stomach was so sensitive—well, it was his palate, really; he had been sick so quickly that the poison she had managed to get into it was back out of his system before it could do any damage. Her own fault, really—if she had gotten him the broth like John had told her to, instead of that vile mess (which had made it much easier to mask the taste of the foreign ingredient), he might not have been quite so all right.  
  
He was just as glad, though—circumstances being what they were, he hadn’t had to tell John anything. He wondered if she had scuttled off to report her failure or if she would try to hide the failed attempt. Either way, she’d be in trouble.  
  
Oh, well. Not his problem.  
  
“What’s going on in that great brain of yours?” the doctor prodded. “Don’t go away from me.”  
  
“Hmm? I’m not. I’m right here.”  
  
“No. You’re way over there.” John smiled warmly, indicating the two-inch gap between them.  
  
“Oh! You’re absolutely correct. I _am_ sorry. How do you suggest that I rectify the situation?” He smiled back, eager for a distraction.  
  
“You could come over here. I’d like to put something other than a pile of poncy long words into that gorgeous mouth of yours.”  
  
“As you wish.”  
  



	62. Chapter 62

Mary Morstan was clearly working for Moriarty. He examined her education and employment history. She actually was a nurse. She had worked at… ah! The establishment where they had moved John—for the “rest” that he had needed. And it was clearly no coincidence that she had left that position shortly after he had been released.  
  
She had begun working at the surgery shortly after John had been hired. Yes, it was very obvious. If only he had been paying more attention to the doctor’s progress… but he hadn’t seen the purpose for that. He had been focusing his attentions on his brother.  
  
Damn. That meant that he had missed something and due to the circumstances, Sherlock would have to be informed. Or would he? His brother knew most of the relevant information. Did it matter exactly _how_ Mary had been shadowing John—as long as he knew that she had been—for two long years?  
  
 _Why_ she had been doing so spoke for itself. Moriarty knew, from the very first, that Sherlock wasn’t dead. He had followed his progress around the globe—as his little brother had methodically destroyed one of his operations after another—but had he been able to anticipate Sherlock’s moves? Clearly not, or Sherlock would have been stopped very early on in his endeavour. He had had that horrible man tailing him, of course, but obviously Mary had been set to keep an eye on John—because if—when—Sherlock returned to England, wouldn’t he be the first person he contacted?  
  
Mycroft was a bit impressed—and a bit amused—at how close an eye Mary had kept on the doctor. Working together was one thing—but moving in together? Getting engaged? He wondered if that was just part of the plan, or… no. It wasn’t. How could it have been? How could she have guaranteed that the doctor would be attracted to her?  
  
Oh! Idiot. He was glad that Sherlock wasn’t there to gloat. It hadn’t been part of the plan at all.  
  
Mary Morstan was actually in love with John Watson.  
  
He wondered how furious that _sentiment_ made Moriarty.  
  
*  
  
“I’m sorry about this—truly I am. But he needs me.” John deftly folded another shirt and placed it in his suitcase.  
  
“More than I do?” Mary spat out.  
  
“Frankly? Yes. He needs someone to take care of him.” He started tucking socks and pants into the case.  
  
“But why does it have to be _you_?” Her hands were clenched into fists; she stood at the threshold of their bedroom, blocking the exit.  
  
“I’m a doctor,” John replied as reasonably as he could.  
  
“Oh, _Christ_ , John! There are other doctors!” She raked both hands through her short hair.  
  
“And his best friend.” He retrieved a few items from the top of the dresser and tucked them away.  
  
She couldn’t even respond. She felt dizzy with the intensity of her rage.  
  
He hefted the suitcase off the bed and glanced around. “I truly am sorry about this, but—” He paused, considering his next words carefully.  
  
“But what?” Her throat felt like she was swallowing gravel.  
  
“But maybe… I think that I might need this, as well. Some time away.” He didn’t flinch; he made direct eye contact.  
  
“Away from _me_? John! We’re getting married!” Her chest was tight.  
  
He squared his shoulders and faced the door. “Excuse me,” he said, his voice low, trying to pass her.  
  
She stared at him, her mouth falling open. “We are still getting married, aren’t we?”  
  
“I’ve really got to be going,” he replied, his voice and face neutral. He reached out with his free hand and, gently moving her aside, headed down the hallway.  
  
“You fucking bastard! You’ll be back in a week!” she shrieked after him.  
  
He didn’t turn back to look at her.  
  
*  
  
Billy headed up the small team of homeless people who went with John to retrieve the rest of his belongings a week later. They swiftly put books and items into cartons. Sherlock had assured them that Mary was working, but they felt pressed for time nonetheless.  
  
“Thanks,” John said to them as they brought the cartons up the stairs of 221 Baker Street. He handed Billy cash.  
  
Mrs Hudson beamed as the doctor’s belongings headed up the stairs to the first-floor flat—where they belonged.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock had said that Mary was working and he hadn’t lied. Not exactly. He had just let John assume that he meant at the surgery—where John had handed in his notice and now his medical texts and his favourite mug were back where they belonged, too.  
  
And then to ensure that they had enough time to retrieve all of John’s things, he had made sure to keep Mary employed. It had been a bit dull, waiting for her to notice him loitering in their neighbourhood—but eventually she had taken the bait and he had led her on a merry chase through the city.  
  
It had been great fun at that point. She was an excellent shot; of that he had no doubt, but in other areas necessary for her trade, she was either remarkably unskilled or perhaps just out of practice. She had been undercover for a long time, after all—and following someone surreptitiously was hardly a job requirement for a nurse.  
  
He actually had to stop and go back a few times.  
  
Finally, he got a text from John— _All done get your arse back here to help unpack_ —and he grinned in anticipation of the little “welcome home” party he had planned for just the two of them. He shook her off so easily it was really rather embarrassing for her and headed home.  
  
*  
  
A week after that—a week that Sherlock would cherish for the rest of his life—he decided that enough was enough. He had John back—as his flatmate; his best friend; his companion-at-arms; his doctor; his blogger—and most importantly of course as his lover—and it was time to tidy up a rather irritating loose end.


	63. Chapter 63

“It took you long enough,” she snickered triumphantly, staring down the barrel of her gun. The access hallway behind the false front of Leinster Gardens was narrow and close and they stood only about four feet apart. The muzzle of her gun was, therefore, decidedly closer to Sherlock, and angled up to point directly at his face.  
  
“On the contrary,” he commented drily. “I knew what you were the very first time I met you.” He spoke quietly. Other than an occasional rumble of a train, far below, the place was deathly quiet.  
  
“You did not,” she refuted, snorting but holding the gun steady.  
  
“Oh, please. I might not have known where I was or what year it was, but I know an assassin when I see one.” He was standing calmly in front of her; his back straight, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.  
  
Her nose wrinkled up. “What do you mean? How did you know?”  
  
“Dull.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, then focused intently back on the small woman. “What nice, boring English nurse who collects cat figurines carries two mobiles and a handgun?”  
  
“How did you…?”  
  
“Actually, that wasn’t it at all, but if I had wanted to tell John, I would have needed to point out the more obvious clues to prove my point. He wouldn’t believe me otherwise—he wouldn’t want to believe me.”  
  
He watched as a muscle twitched in her cheek. “You don’t tell John,” she snarled.  
  
“ _I_ have no intention of telling John.” He shrugged almost carelessly.  
  
“So if it wasn’t my… tools, what was it?”  
  
“Oh, don’t be so boring,” he sighed. “For a nurse on a tight budget—you really do have a talent for selecting the absolute worst of the lower-end racks—I found it somewhat unlikely that you would have travelled abroad—extensively. That you were away long enough—first America, then Russia—to have some rather odd inflections in your speech. Actually,” and now he smiled as he warmed to his subject, “I originally thought that you were American, but a few additional conversations clarified things for me.”  
  
She stood silently.  
  
“I don’t think I need to mention the hair dye.”  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“So,” he exclaimed. “That leaves us in a bit of a quandary.”  
  
“What quandary?” she asked warily.  
  
“Well, this one, obviously,” he replied, indicating her with a nod of his head. “You have every intention of killing me and I have absolutely no intention of dying.”  
  
“That’s too bad,” she snarled. “’Cause I’m going to shoot that smirk right though the back of your skull.”  
  
He frowned at her in dismay. “That will leave an ugly corpse,” he pointed out. “And it would be a bit _obvious_ , wouldn’t it?”  
  
“So?” she shrugged.  
  
“So, surely someone will figure out who shot me. My brother, Lestrade… I think even Mrs Hudson has some suspicions.”  
  
“But not John?” She was genuinely puzzled.  
  
“No, not John. He still has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to you.” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “God knows why.”  
  
“’Blind spot’?” She pursed her lips and a small crease appeared between her eyebrows.  
  
“That’s all it is, you know. Just some after-effects; the lingering stink of a cheap perfume—in your case, literally. That was another tip-off, by the way.” The smallest of smiles danced on his lips.  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” she muttered uneasily.  
  
“I mean: A) You purchased that rather horrid scent somewhere in China; and B) John was never really in love with you.”  
  
“What?” Her mouth fell open.  
  
“Oh, didn’t you know? Goodness. You really did lose focus, didn’t you? He was… somewhat fond of you. You were a distraction. That’s all it ever was. He had been ill for a long time and you offered something different. Something normal. Something… boring. He was never really in love with you, and once I came back he came to his senses. He had no intention of marrying you,” he informed her blithely, a small smile on his lips.  
  
“How dare you,” she whispered.  
  
“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you…” he paused, the smile fading as he studied her intently. A slightly baffled look crossed his face. “Good lord, Mary. You were actually in love with him, weren’t you? And you thought that he was in love with you. I must say I am quite disappointed. And I’m guessing that James Moriarty is, as well.”  
  
He watched in triumph as the gun in her hand dipped the slightest bit.  
  
“Oh, I’ve hit a nerve there, haven’t I?” he continued eagerly. “He must be _terribly_ disappointed in you. It’s been months since I came back and here I am, still breathing.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“I didn’t really understand why, but now I see everything. Thank you very much for clarifying the situation.”  
  
“Situation?” Her voice was flat; inflectionless.  
  
“You haven’t been able to bring yourself to kill me because you knew what it would do to John.”  
  
“I…” and then, in a microsecond, Sherlock saw her expression go from bitter to surprised to triumphant. “Shit, Sherlock,” she hissed. “You’ve just been stalling me. Who’s on their way? Big brother’s minions? The Yard? MI5?”  
  
“John.”  
  
Her focus really was off; she didn’t raise the gun back up to his head before she pulled the trigger. She was back out on the street almost before he hit the floor.  
  
*  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock. No. No. No no no no not again not now don’t you dare die you dickhead.” Blood made his hands slippery as he fought to keep pressure on the gunshot wound with one and phone 999 with the other.  
  
Yes, the shooter was getting away.  
  
For once, John didn’t care.  
  



	64. Chapter 64

“Well?”  
  
“Are you… family?” the surgeon asked hesitantly.  
  
“Yes, he is. He’s my brother’s husband,” Mycroft interceded.  
  
Unbelievably. Breathtakingly. Falsely. Was Mycroft lying for him? For them? Yes. Yes, he was. And to excellent effect.  
  
“Oh. Well, then. I’ll be honest. It’s not good. He flatlined—”  
  
John was horrified and deeply embarrassed by the whimper that escaped his lips. He was forever grateful for the steadying hand of Mycroft Holmes on his shoulder.  
  
Crap, the bugger really did get it, didn’t he?  
  
“But… against all odds, really… he came back.”  
  
“He came….” John felt his breath leave him; more than the breath needed for that short statement.  
  
“Sit _down_ , Doctor.” Mycroft’s sharp voice cut through the miasma that had clouded his eyes and ears. He vaguely felt himself being helped into a hard plastic chair; his head being pushed down.  
  
For a few moments all he could hear was the sound of his own heart; flooding and whooshing and thudding and…  
  
Okay, John. Enough. Sherlock needs you—and coherent would be a better option. Yes.  
  
He took a deep breath. Lifted his head up. “What happened?” he asked as calmly as he could.  
  
The doctor began to explain in laymen’s terms. Mycroft put up a hand. “Please. John is a doctor. Can you use grown-up words? I’ll try to stumble along.” Despite everything, John almost snickered at the sarcasm. The other man nodded a bit numbly and, backing up to the beginning, described in brisk, accurate medical terms exactly what Sherlock had experienced.  
  
liver  
  
inferior vena cave   
  
fluid  
  
 _hypovolaemia_  
  
IV  
  
asystole   
  
CPR  
  
adrenaline  
  
Lazarus   
  
  
  
“Can I see him?”  
  
“He’s not awake yet; he’s in recovery. I’ll send someone as soon as he’s up.”  
  
“Thank you, doctor,” Mycroft said sincerely.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the medical background: http://wellingtongoose.livejournal.com/28585.html


	65. Chapter 65

Mary was so furious that her head hurt.  
  
She had meant to kill Sherlock. She should have killed him. Actually, he _had_ been dead—his recovery from his particular injury and after effects was so rare it was actually called The Lazarus Effect. Was he really superhuman, then? He had come back from the dead more than once, now. Bloody bastard wouldn’t stay dead.  
  
Fuck  
  
 _He’s alive_ , she texted. Ordinarily she would have been a bit nervous about sending a message like that, but now she was so livid that she didn’t care.  
  
When her mobile rang, she was so startled that she dropped it. She paused as the distinctive ring tone—one that played for that single caller alone—drilled into her brain. She picked it up and hesitantly (her hands— _her_ hands—were shaking) accepted the call.  
  
“What. Did. You. Say?”  
  
Those four words—her stomach felt like she had just swallowed a pound of molten lead.  
  
“He survived,” she managed to squeak out, barely able to draw enough breath to even whisper. “It was some sort of miracle—one percent chance. He was dead on the operating table—I swear he was.”  
  
“Apparently not dead enough.”  
  
“No,” she agreed, her head spinning.  
  
“Then I suggest that you go DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!”  
  
The last four words were screamed with such fury that they actually hurt her ear. When she ended the call, she was sweating.  
  
She stuffed the mobile into her pocket and went into the bathroom to wash her face.  
  



	66. Chapter 66

_In case of drug dependence, long term use, or increased levels of high tolerance for opiates, up to 3 grams of morphine per day can be tolerated._  
  
“Yeah, of course he’s got a high tolerance for morphine—he is a recovering addict—but he’s also got a high tolerance for pain. I don’t think he needs as much as they’re giving him.” John took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. It had been purchased from a cart outside the hospital and it was dreadful.  
  
“He can’t overdose with that self-administering pump, can he?” Greg asked.  
  
“No. It’s fairly easy to turn down the dose, but you need a security code to set it higher or add anything.”  
  
*  
  
“Are you all right? You look quite tired,” Sherlock frowned.  
  
“Yeah, well, dragging myself in here every day is wearing me out. It’ll be easier once you’re home.”  
  
“You’ll be bored—no more doctors to argue with,” Sherlock smiled.  
  
“I’ll argue with Mrs Hudson instead. Hey, do you want anything to eat? I heard that you slept through breakfast _and_ lunch.”  
  
“It’s always disgusting anyway.”  
  
“So, you need to eat something. What would you like?”  
  
“You know what I like,” he shrugged.  
  
John suppressed a grin. He knew that Sherlock would eat anything that he brought him. “I will see what I can find,” he told him. “You stay put.”  
  
“Ha ha,” Sherlock responded sarcastically. “Sort of tied up here.”  
  
“Good. I like that. I always know where you are.”   
  
He headed out the door.  
  
*  
  
It took him a bit longer than anticipated to find something that Sherlock would consider acceptable. His appetite, rarely very large to begin with, was being adversely affected by the medications he was receiving—and of course he was a bit paranoid about being poisoned, which some of the nurses took seriously and some did not. He had been steadily losing weight; another reason that John wanted him home, where he could make him all of his “safe” food.  
  
Finally, he had gotten something that the thin man might deem palatable enough to at least taste, but then he ran into an old colleague and they chatted for some time.  
  
“Sherlock? I’ve got something you’ll like!” he announced as he rounded the corner. Sherlock didn’t respond. Had he fallen asleep again? Probably. John deposited the snacks he was holding on the bedside table. “Hey, sleepyhead. Time for some food, all right?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t respond.  
  
John looked at him carefully, and as he did, his expression changed.  
  
There was a small amount of vomit on the pillow.  
  
“Sherlock?” John repeated firmly. “Time to wake up. Come on.” He laid his hand on one arm. His skin was cold. Clammy. Shit. “Sherlock?!” he shouted. He pried up one eyelid. The pupil was a pinpoint of darkness. He glanced at a monitor. What was his respiration rate? And his blood pressure? Fuck. And why hadn’t the readings set off any alarms at the nursing station?  
  
“Nurse!” he bellowed out the door. “He’s OD’ing on the morphine!”  
  
*  
  
“The man who was on security detail swears that no one but authorized personnel was in his room.” DI Lestrade ran his hand through his hair, making it spike up.  
  
“And I wish to see for myself,” Mycroft Holmes hissed back. “That is what security cameras are for.”  
  
The silver-haired man sighed and nodded. It had been another close call. Fortunately, John had discovered Sherlock’s condition in time for countermeasures to be administered. He would feel awful for a bit (not that he had been feeling particularly spectacular before), and they would be weaning him off the morphine immediately (obviously), but he would suffer no long-term effects.  
  
John had not left his side since the incident except when he was relieved by himself or Mycroft. He looked awful and probably felt worse, but it also made it easy to keep the details of the investigation from him. He did not need to know more than he already did.  
  
What he did know—what they had decided to share with him—was that someone had deliberately interfered with the settings on the self-administering pump so it would deliver a lethal dose of morphine. That same person had also apparently been clever enough to trick the feed from the monitors to the nurses’ station so the readings had stayed within safe parameters, which is why no alarms had gone off when his blood pressure had plummeted.  
  
Now Greg and Mycroft sat next to each other in front of Mycroft’s laptop; he operated the controls of the security feed with rapidity.  
  
“We know it had to have been after nine o’clock,” the DI explained. “He gave himself a hit—self-administered a dose of morphine—at that time, and clearly he was fine until John came in at two. He dosed himself again when John went to get him something to eat and the reaction was immediate.”  
  
“All right,” Mycroft murmured, his hands flying over the keyboard. “Here’s the footage from eight o’clock on.”  
  
They watched in silence as the images flashed before their eyes. Doctors. Nurses. Breakfast tray. The security man had stopped someone from bringing in flowers—who was that? Oh, Molly Hooper. She had left the flowers in the hallway and gone in for a few minutes.  
  
“Wait. Who was that?” Greg blurted out. He frowned at the screen as Mycroft backed it up a bit. “That nurse. Is that… Mary?”


	67. Chapter 67

“You don’t tell John.” Sherlock’s voice was still weak and he was so exhausted from the brief conversation he had just had with his brother he was having trouble keeping his head up.  
  
“No, of course not,” Mycroft soothed, uncharacteristically sincere.  
  
“He still believes that I don’t know who shot me or who fiddled with the taps here and it’s going to stay that way.”  
  
“What the fuck…?”  
  
John stood at the door.  
  
*  
  
“He took that surprisingly calmly,” Greg commented, watching as an orderly righted the bedside table the doctor had tipped over.  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. His eyes were heavy-lidded. Despite the chaos of the past twenty minutes (and the rare sight of Mycroft defending himself with his umbrella), he looked as if he couldn’t remain conscious a minute longer.  
  
“Go to sleep,” the DI told him firmly. “I’ll look after John.”  
  
“Mycroft’s already got… min…”  
  
Sherlock turned his head on his pillow and slept.  
  
*  
  
“I didn’t kill anyone,” John reported rather dazedly, as if he was surprised at himself. “And I got you chips.” He held up the greasy bag.  
  
“Oh. Good.” Sherlock nodded hesitantly. He wasn’t sure if he should express happiness at this statement. Rules of etiquette didn’t really apply in these circumstances, did they?  
  
John put the bag on the bedside table and shucked his coat, tossing it on the plastic visitor’s chair in the corner. He sat gently on the bed near Sherlock’s hip and pulled the wheeled table over. “Got you tons of vinegar,” he commented casually. “Open up.”  
  
Sherlock accepted a chip from the doctor’s fingers.  
  
“She’s gone, of course,” the older man continued. “Her flat was emptied out overnight, according to the neighbours. No one really saw who did it, but they apparently did a thorough job. Even bleached the walls and floor, for some reason.”  
  
Sherlock chewed and swallowed and obediently opened his mouth for another chip, looking evenly into John’s eyes. “Bleached,” he commented off-handedly.  
  
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s rude,” the doctor chided gently. He swiped a finger across the full lower lip, whisking away a crumb.  
  
“Well, I am somewhat of an expert at that,” he murmured.  
  
“Yes, you are. And being a complete wanker and a dickhead. Here.”  
  
Another chip.  
  
John waited patiently for him to chew and swallow. “Can you tell me a few things?” he asked when he was done, his tone calm and even.  
  
“Some,” the pale man offered.  
  
“Did you know?”  
  
“Know?” Sherlock echoed evasively.  
  
“Did you know what she was?”  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“How long? Since the beginning?”  
  
He nodded again.  
  
John pursed his lips as he absorbed this. He offered another chip and Sherlock shook his head. “Yes. You need to eat,” he reprimanded gently. “Good boy,” he praised as he reluctantly accepted it. “When you get home I’m going to be able to feed you and take care of you properly.”  
  
He took a bite of a chip himself and shuddered. “Honestly, Sherlock. How can you eat them like this?”  
  
“I like them that way.”  
  
John chuckled at the petulant tone. Sherlock was becoming more like his old self every day. Then he sobered. “Do you think I’m an idiot for not figuring it out?”  
  
“No. It’s not your fault,” Sherlock admitted.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You actually came very close to discovering her little ‘secret’ more than once. I couldn’t let that happen.”  
  
“Even while you knew that she was targeting you? Why in God’s name… oh.”  
  
Watching John’s beautifully expressive face was like watching the sea as it churned and changed.  
  
“Yes, John. I was hoping to get to Moriarty through her.”  
  
“By endangering yourself.”  
  
“Yes… and no. I wasn’t in much danger until the end.”  
  
“Moriarty hired a bad assassin?” John chuckled.  
  
“Actually, yes. She was rather disappointing, really. She was so sharp; so focused at first.”  
  
“What happened?” John brushed an errant curl from the pale forehead.  
  
“She fell in love.”  
  
John sat still for a few moments before breaking the silence. “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? And don’t say biscuits.”  
  
“Biscuits.”  
  
“Wanker.” He reached down and rubbed a thin leg through the blankets. “I’ve missed this.”  
  
“Arguing with me about my eating?” Sherlock griped.  
  
“Feeding you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“I never stopped loving you. Never stopped missing you. Wishing you were back. It still doesn’t feel quite real sometimes.” John fiddled with the chips, trying to find the smallest ones, which Sherlock preferred.  
  
“When I got back I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.”  
  
“You know now. Four more.”  
  
“Yes, I do. Two.”  
  
“Three and I’ll bring Mrs Hudson’s jammie dodgers tomorrow.”  
  
Sherlock ate three more chips.


	68. Chapter 68

“You all right?” John asked for the twentieth time.  
  
“Yes, John,” Sherlock assured him for the thirteenth time (he had not been all right three times and the rest of the times he just ignored the question).  
  
“Two more steps.”  
  
“Yes, I can count.”  
  
Despite his anxiety, John smiled. His Sherlock was home—well, two more steps and he would be. He had been preparing anxiously for this day for a few weeks now—an earlier release date had been set, but with one thing and another (the one thing being Sherlock and the other being the still-officially-unidentified person who had somehow adjusted his morphine drip to administer a nearly-lethal dose) here they finally were.  
  
*  
  
A few weeks—was that all it was? It seemed a lifetime ago already, John mused as he collapsed into his chair. He had finally gotten Sherlock up the stairs and into the flat and into comfortable clothing and into bed. The journey had worn him out—he was still paper-pale and thin—and he didn’t object when John tucked him in, kissed him on the forehead, and shut the light.  
  
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” he murmured as he partially closed the bedroom door.  
  
How much time had passed since he had discovered Sherlock limp in his hospital room? And how much time after he had been shot was that? It was a horrible jumble in John’s head and a mystery he had no intention of solving. It didn’t matter.  
  
Sherlock was home.  
  
Mary was gone.  
  
Would she be back? Not as the cat-loving nurse, of course—he knew now that that was just a cover—but as who she really was? An assassin. He had actually proposed to an assassin. He was in love with a self-proclaimed sociopath. He wasn’t quite sure what that said about him.  
  
He pulled himself up tiredly from his chair and headed into the kitchen to make some lunch, wondering what had happened to her that last night—that last night that she had been Mary Morstan.


	69. Chapter 69

Her fingers were shaking so much she could barely compose a coherent text, but it was her only option.  
  
 _This is incredible_ , she typed. _The bastard won’t die._  
  
 _I’m not happy._  
  
 _I’m not happy about it either_ , she responded testily.  
  
 _No, I’m not happy about YOU._  
  
She stared at the reply and jumped when she received another one.  
  
 _In fact, I’m deeply disappointed._  
  
Her heart began to pound. A third message.  
  
 _Say goodbye._  
  
  
  
Mary Morstan, whose real name was buried so deep in her past that she barely remembered it, had watched in horror as the red light of the laser sight paused briefly on the single mouse among all the cat figurines on her dresser.  
  
And then on her forehead.  
  



End file.
